Chapters Chapter 1 - Lullaby of Woe
"Hexers, they were once as common as birds in the sky. It was said, that this guild of mutated monster slayers lived in a mountaintop keep. They had but one singular purpose, to protect the inhabitants of Equestria from monsters that lurked in our world since the Conjunction of Spheres. These sterile mutants were often hatchlings and fledglings from Gryphonstone. In times of greed and prosperity, there was also intense poverty. Before the time of King Grover's heightened reign, Hexers often could not be paid in gold. The monster slayers invoked the "Law of Surprise", a custom as old as the existence of equine itself. The law went, 'if you do not have coin - then head home, as I have guaranteed your living. Find me the first thing that you did not expect'. On one particular dark evening, a peasant was rescued from a beast that laid beneath a bridge. The peasant returned home to find his wife had laid an egg. 6 years later, the Hexer who saved him returned and took the fledgling as payment back to Kaer Morhen - the School of the Wolf. This was the beginning of the infamous monster slayer: Gilroy of Gryphonstone."
~Anonymous, "A Brief History of Mutants"
The bank of the river reflected the moon above. With such a beautiful sight, it was easy to mistake the stars in the reflection of the water for the actual celestial beings up in the sky. The soft blankets of waves soothingly cast themselves over jagged rocks and debris from small fishing vessels, many relics and a select few seemingly new as of the evening. A wooden fence, asymmetrical in every way, dotted the grass covered slop before it reached the coastal dirt. Between blades of shivering, dying yet still green grass laid plots of snow from the day the prior. The Gryphon, who was on her evening stroll, gently traced herself around the decorated nature that was her modest property. A nearby tree was also illuminated by the full moon tonight. Its bark breathed life like a young colt taking its first breath. It was heavenly in every way, however somber - as the Lady of this land knew soon that she would meet a very peculiar visitor.
Her beak ripened, she chirped out a tune with a beautiful harmony - a lullaby to add solace to the scenery of what may be her grave. The wind gently carried her dark maroon headfeathers with it, but with not enough force to pluck - merely to make them wave as her blue dress did. "Wolves asleepin' midst the trees, Bats all aswayin' in the breeze- " They stood on their hindlegs, something that few Gryphons did. The bipedal stride was something among officers of the Black One's military, primarily. To show their authority and prestige, being worthy of a salute and respect. The Lady of This Night, continued to softly harmonize - her feet and talons crunching against the now frosted leaves, dirt and blades of weeds. "But one soul lies anxious, wide awake~ " She bent down, their taloned hand carefully picked up a small doll from the dirt. It was a soft shade of blue, much like her own garb. Left behind just hours ago that evening. Their claw traced the face of the doll, which had been soaked in both tears and melancholy.
"Fearin' all manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths... " The Lady swayed a bit with the doll, as if it were her partner to dance with devils in the pale moonlight. Across the river as the architectural masterpiece of Toussaint, each window glistening like an enchanted lantern and every spiral, stone and step like a note in a perfected orchestral composition. A principality of living art, where class and civilization was at its peak - while the world just outside of its cobblestone streets, remained hungry and afraid of the beasts who were their neighbors. "For your dolly, polly sleep has flown, Don't dare let her tremble alone~! " The Lady stepped toward the path that lead down to the cold water of the river, as if she wanted to sprint across its surface. She yearned for the festival that was soon to take place that night, a luxury she was long denied.
The Lady brought the doll up to eye level, her wings fluttering a moment - a brief moment of joy was felt as she held the toy like a mother would her kin. "For the Hexer - Heartless cold! Paid in coin of gold... " A step behind her, a heavy foot - a bipedal such as herself, had stepped cautiously on a patch of crispy, frozen grass. A sound so light that few would be able to hear it besides the Lady, even in this absolute silence of the deep evening. "He'll come, he'll go - Leave naught behind But heartache and woe~ " She made a half right and stopped her brief dance, letting the doll slip from her talons into the weeds where it was gathered from originally. Perhaps that was its new home, as it was an orphan, forgotten and abandoned by its owner out of fear. "Deep, deep woe... " Her glistening headfeathers had a streak of silver from the moon above - shining like a Hexer's sword.
"A beautiful melody, honestly." Gilroy mentioned casually. His voice was gritty, yet balanced. It did not yet match their youthful appearance, but behind their young eyes laid a weariness and caution of a veteraned hunter. The fellow Gryphon approached on their hind legs, feet wrapped in leather and cloth - their thighs in a padded garb while their torso covered with a dark brown jerkin. A thick, probably warm undershirt covered their forearms and a bit of their neck. Yet only a single wing poked out of their back, on the left side. A sleeve even covered their tail. Warm and snug, yet being a mutant - they did not need to be. "Been awhile since I heard it." Their yellow eyes flashed as they blinked in the night, a cat's eyes in a Gryphon's head. Gilroy was white as a dove. Their headfeathers long and pulled back into a pony tail via a single, red knot of fabric. The Hexer's beak a brownish gray.
The Lady inhaled, her own eyes closed for a moment. Their feet sheepishly gave a soft kick to the doll on the ground. "Most have forgotten it. I remember when it was still a fresh tune, that spilled out from the mouth of colts and fledglings into the air of this very riverside." The Gryphon scratched the back of her neck, just behind her long flow of feathers - her own talons nicked a string that kept them close together. She went from civilized to feral, yet intensely more beautiful. She smirked, turning slowly - the flow of her dress no longer carried her as the winds have died down tremendously so. As if they were not there seconds before. The Hexer approached her carefully from beyond the gate, their body turned - to protect their vitals and draw their sword if they needed to. The Lady's eyes gazed upon the belt across his torso - numerous vials and flasks, three or four in total. A small satchel for gods know what. Two swords, side by side, on his back - where his right wing was before it was clipped. A silver sword adorned with the decoration of a wolf's head and blue wrapping at the hilt, then its brother - a red hilted steel sword. Each of nearly equal length, she estimated from the tip of the sheath that poked out from behind him.
"The world has a lot of things on its mind. Too many things." Gilroy said simply, their stance now more strong - yet more warm than confrontational. His eyes were bright in the dark yet the Lady was unable to tell just what they were looking at. Was he admiring her beauty, her feralness? Or was he scanning her for whatever motion she may make. Suddenly, the Hexer looked more like any other Gryphon. He was strange, surely - but not a monster as told by the other folk. He was different than the last one she saw before that, he looked weaker and scrawnier than the one before that one even. Perhaps, it was the first that encountered her, decades upon decades ago that gave her a scare once - but the Lady now noted that was her youthful, inexperienced self facing a challenge for the first time. Oh, how much she has grown and strengthened since then.
The Lady ran her petite talons through their wave of headfeathers. The dark maroon colour almost looked pitch black as it faced away from the onlooking stare of the moon. "Things like me?" She teased. Timid one moment, playful the next. Gilroy calculated the distance between them, took in consideration from his research and dabbled over pages upon pages of glossaries they had memorized and stored in their head. Their gloved hands hid any talons - it seemed they had none at all, in fact. On their knuckles were studded, jagged bits of steel - the Lady recognized them now. Little triangles of silver, in fact. Only silver could reflect the moon like that as if it were a mirror.
"They paid me for you." The Hexer said simply. The Lady shrugged and tried to conceal a laugh by capturing it within a smile. Her cloak that laid upon her shoulders slowly drooped off of her frame and onto the cold, unforgiving ground. Revealing her blue dress in its entirety. She was dressed for the festival, the ball - the feast... All of the events that she would not participate in tonight at the principality. She must have felt like there was a prince waiting for her there, with a glass slipper only a monster could fit in. The Gryphon's talons began to pick and unthread the top of her dress, letting out a tuft of smaller, softer feathers that would have aroused even the most saintly and religious of Gryphons.
"In the times of old, there would be not amount of bits, gold or orphans that could satisfy pay for which a Hexer would take this contract." Her voice had changed, subtly at first - but soon became deep, bellowing while remaining a tinge bit feminine. Indeed, she now sounded like a ghastly hag that had gotten lost and fallen down a well. A true Baba Yaga. As she raised her hands again to further disembark her body from the dress, Gilroy noticed that her talons had become grotesquely long and ugly. The dark maroon of her feathers were now completely, oil-black. The Lady's shoulders peered out from the river of cloth and further gave form to her naked visage underneath. Fit, strong - far too strong for a lady who could afford such a nice dress of noble makings.
The Hexer's finger twitched, the Lady was unsure if he was going to reach for his sword or cast on of his famed Hexer Signs. "Times have changed." Gilroy muttered, but before he could act further on his contract the Lady literally became invisible to the eye. From the blue dress, a streak of visible wind zoomed out of it and left the fabric to lifelessly fall ontop of the snowy grass like a ghost itself. Gilroy followed the sound of a demonic, teasing giggle that flew past him - making the leaves that dripped from the dying trees of this time of year suddenly whirlwind out of control before crashing into the dirt. Their head and torso moved nearly the same, while their legs remained strong and almost rooted to the ground. Their cat-like eyes watched as the Lady's form pushed open the wooden gate to the nearby barn and knocked its door open - the frame spat out wooddust from the burst of force against its hinges.
It was so natural, that by the time Gilroy approached the barn he already had his silver sword in hand. It must have taken literally a second or less to pull it out of the sheath for him, without a single awkward movement in his body. The Hexer knew he was being lured in to the hunting grounds of the Lady, their eyes still scanned around while their head panned back and forth on a horizontal plane. Their foot slowed to a ceasing in their step as they remembered to grab a potion from their leather sash before progressing any further. The tip of his break bit off the top plug, which was packed with herbs and spices to preserve the effects of the concoction. Gilroy spit the plug out onto the ground, where it stuck against the sticky, near freezing dew drops of the grass. The wind had returned and blew through his feathers, rustling their wing slightly. The wooden fences of the entire farmland whistled for a moment an eerie tune - like the lullaby they just heard.
Gilroy quickly took the bottle to their beak and started to quickly gulp down the thick liquid down his throat. At first it burned like a shot of alcohol, then they bent over and grabbed their stomach - letting the potion bottle drop to the ground between his feet. The potion seized their body, pulsated throughout their blood and rewritten nervous system. Their yellow, piercing eyes became bloodshot for a second - as if parasites swam through all of his veins with each pump of the heart. Even beneath the feathers, the gross changing to his body's chemistry could be seen. But just as quickly as they had ingested the serum, they were upright and calm - fully recovered despite still appearing like a corpse. A small drop of blood dripped from the nostril of their beak and burned a hole through the discarded glass bottle. Warping the glass around the entry point, a small streak of smoke rose from the single blood droplet which now buried itself into the soil.
The Hexer opened the barn door for himself, the broken chains that once had it fastened jingled and swayed against the new winds that have found entry as well. Every breath of his was harsher, as he had to take in more oxygen when being intoxicated by his mutant brews. Sword in a single grip on his right side, his left hand outward, they side stepped into the barn and scanned it as they did the area outside. It was strange, the farm was well kept but there was no stench of cows or pigs. It was just straw and an intense aroma of blood. Blood that has stained the wood and could never be washed out. Enough blood that an entire barn full of dead pigs and cows could generate. Gilroy could feel the eyes upon him, one moment they were above - staring down between the boards and then rapidly changing from stall to stall, as if he was hunted and haunted by a hundred ghosts.
Every step they took, their wolf-head medallion vibrated and danced against their chest. It was more than a symbol of the Hexer trade or the School of said trade they attended, it was a magical device used to detect magic and monsters. In this barn, Gilroy had used it to detect both alongside a sense of dread. The reality of the situation had become more clear, the Hexer reached for a circular vial on their belt that was hidden just behind their waist. Beside it was a butcher hook, used for carrying trophies and also to claim them. In their hand, they gripped a glass bomb of alchemic dust laced with some silver shavings. The Lady's invisible form did not bother the rays of moonlight that seeped in through the cracks of the roof, but Gilroy did hear the sound of taloned foot briefly scratch against the wood framing of one of the hay-holding stocks nearby.
Gilroy cast the glass ball and let it shatter violently against a wooden post. It shot alchemic glitter everywhere in that vicinity and coated the invisible Gryphon's feathers. She hawked at him as she flapped her wings with tremendous power - it merely cast dirt and hay across the barn and did little to disarrange the dust that now clung to her. Droplets of her monstrous blood briefly fell toward the ground before becoming hardly visible themselves. The silver shavings were more like silver shards, an expensive investment that cost the Hexer a pouchful of coins. Each one stung deeply, they pulsated with a sort of pain that the Lady could not comprehend. It was the taste of her own mortality and it was bitter, ever so bitter and far from sweet. What a strange sight it was to see, an invisible beaked creature roaring like a feral, jungle beast distorted through a wood instrument. The Lady's glittered talons clawed out at the sterile mutant.
They met at the middle, where a streak of moonlight was cast - the Hexer's silver sword stopped the first blow as it was now lodged midway through the Lady's forearm. The pulled back and swiped again and again, a rapid succession of life ending strikes and blows from her vicious claws. Gilroy masterfully evaded each one with a step or two backward, before he, himself would lunge forward and swing their silver sword which sang a tune as it could precisely cut a droplet of water or a snowflake from the sky as it fell. The Hexer's swordplay was both practical and like a heavily choreographed dance. It both surprised and threw off the Lady, who found most of her strikes to be dodged, parried or outright struck down with the sting of silver. Yet, even as unpredictable as the swordstyle was - she was able to dodge even the most skillful of slashes from the monster slayer.
Gilroy raised the blade high and swung it in vertical swipes, it left his vitals open to attack - which would provoke the creature to let her guard down and try to swipe at his guts. This would allow for a precise strike right down the middle of her head, but unlike most braindead beasts the Hexer has faced, she would not allowed to be jested into her own death. She evaded, hopped side to side and forced the Hexer to improvise. She hopped over one stall and was already in the other by the time Gilroy had stabbed his sword through the hay stacks. When the monster slayer was near the entrance again, she quickly crawled her away across the door and onto the support beams above. Gilroy scanned the glitter-covered beast as it sprawled out above him in a lustful manner. "Come on, cat-peepers! Don't you want to play?!" The Lady mocked in her non-feral voice, just before she once again whipped around and with great agility, landed just beside Gilroy.
Mutant vs monster, this was the deciding act. Gilroy flew several blows toward her on the horizontal axis. She managed to lean back and evade a blow that would have otherwise cleaved her head clean off. The Hexer twirled and managed to put a foot between her's, their blade soon to catch up but by the time the sword was visibly in front of him again - she was several steps back. Gilroy arched and twisted their wrists, now gripping the sword with both hands they delivered a series of blows and slashes of great power and speed. The Lady had only one solution for this, to come at him just as hard. Gilroy swiped for her leg but only the tip nicked her, she waved a back hand at him and her talons nearly cut his cheek. The silver sword swung horizontally upward and to the right, allowing him to twirl and jab forward - but she had span with him and ducked as if she had read his moves seconds before he performed them. From a lowered position, Gilroy bought their blade upward to slash at the vitals only for sparks to emit as they clanged against her guarding talons.
Back to a one handed stance, they delivered a sudden jab to her side - which spiked the ribs with the silver studded knuckles. Blood crept out from her wound as it jabbed in more Silver shavings into her flesh. The Lady leaped forward at him and let herself become visible again - just as she hit the streak of moonlight. They wanted the monster slayer to see the full grizzly sight of her visage, which had a rotten beak and deep, black eyes that matched her darkened feathers. Before she could continue to lather the Hexer's face with spit from a roar, another fist found its way into her stomach - feathers fell from the now bleeding wound. Gilroy grabbed her by the neck now, as she was stunned and hardly able to swipe at him as she bellowed from the pinching pain of silver. They choke slammed her onto the ground, across a thick rope that was laid across the barn. Gilroy stabbed the ground beneath her, as once again she had turned to a puff of smoke - a mere, mystic wind or mist that zoomed out of harms way as a bat would from light.
Gilroy stood up and felt a pinching at their side. She had managed to swipe him after all during the furious exchange of swords and claws. The Hexer senses and abilities merely suppressed the pain, but now it was hard to ignore as their heated blood even began to burn at their own wound. Their hand held it for a moment as they stared at the dirt beneath them, inhaling more air into their lungs. Gilroy quickly with their free hand, now covered in their own blood from cupping the wound - cast a Hexer Sign. A yellow ball of magic appeared around him - it would shield him from the wooden cart that was cast through the air by the Lady. It hit the magical barrier and crumpled quickly, each piece now tumbled hard to the ground as the yellow bubble disappeared into a series of bright sparks the illuminated an aura of candle-like lights around Gilroy before they disappeared entirely.
The Hexer was already exhausted, the Lady flew at him again and they could barely flail their sword forward. They swept and swiped, but then the Lady drew the sword out from his hand. The silver weapon slid across the dirt from the momentum and stopped at a wood beam, a large chip near its base from repeated contact with the monstrous claws of the bloodsucker. She struck him in the stomach, just as he did earlier in the fight and slashed his face. The Hexer's blood spilled out like any other mortal's, this pleased the lady and killed her fears, just as she was soon to kill the monster slayer. Gilroy gasped for air as the stinging hit their senses suddenly as the swipe at their stomach did, when they opened their mutant eyes again - his face was being pressed hard into an unlit, glass lantern hung up on the barn wall.
He felt his balance give in and knew that his only chance was to turn his fall into a roll. This was easier said than done, being a one winged Gryphon with a sword - useless against a monster and an empty sheath on his back. Still, they managed to do so and emerged on their two feet, splinters in his face face and two scratch marks across his cheek and having dug a bit into his beak as well. They lunged for the exit of the barn, feet first as to slide against the dirt that was now slick with Hexer and monster blood. The Lady grabbed him the collar of his jerking and threw him harshly onto the ground in the center of the barn, where this skirmish for life and death began. His wing curled up, as if to protect something it was hiding beneath his feathers. Gilroy stood up again, legs shaking - this was the most deadly hunt he has been on yet. Blood and soil covered their dove-white face, a single straw of hay stuck, broken against one of their lacerations.
Gilroy stumbled as he took a step but found him suddenly taken into the grasp of the Lady from behind. His beak opened to yelp out, but nothing could come out as the Lady - a Higher Vampire, sank her beak-turned-maw into his shoulder. She bit through the leather and the small layer of chainmail underneath, despite its silver composite. The Lady did not mind one bit, the feathers she tasted as the intoxicating brew of blood entered her mouth. Higher Vampires were worse than any Bruxae or Fledger, they drank blood like fine wine, it was an intoxicating drink, an addicting one. But contrary to folklore, the act of drinking blood did not transfer vampirism to the victim. Vampires were a species of their own, having entered Equestria via the Conjunction of Spheres.
The bloodsucker pushed Gilroy away after taking more than a few pints of his blood, letting the monster slayer fall onto his back as blood drenched his torso. His face looked even more corpselike than it did before he entered the barn. Every gasp brought sharp pain from the gaping wounds that were inflicted upon him. He could only watch as the Vampire stood triumphant over him. The Lady grinned with her malformed maw and her shoulders raised and lower with intensity over her excited drinking frenzy. Gilroy would not falter, still he managed to force himself to stand - which only brought joy to the face of his target. The monster on the contract.
The Lady nearly chirped out of pleasure when suddenly her throat burned. Her black body started to shiver and seize, large tufts of her feathers fell off of her body and the burning sensation surpassed even that of the silver strikes against her. She was poisoned somehow, she did not know how but there was that sudden fear of mortality again. Perhaps it was true, the lullaby she sang at the beginning of their meeting - a song Higher Vampires humbled their offspring with during a time when Hexers hunted their kind mercilessly - was her own dirge, her final swan song. She flapped her wings in anger, only for them to become featherless as a result - her body now nearly nude and her veins visible, intoxicated.
Gilroy cast another sign, by forming his fingers in a certain manner and pushing forward. The sign of Aard, which sent a large blast of kinetic energy at the vampire. The rest of her feathers were tossed apart the barn, the force so great that even the clouds in the sky seemed to move for a moment. The Vampire next felt her back against a wooden beam and then her bare, bleeding stomach against the hay. She was knocked back several meters, which gave the Hexer enough time to regenerate and come at her once again. His silver sword in a single hand grip and a hand a free, perhaps for more sign usage if he had any left in him. Now, somehow considerably weaker than the Hexer was, despite Gilroy forcefully sucking air into his lungs - the Lady made a weak swipe out against him. Gilroy side stepped and with a single slice - dismembered her attacking hand. Its elongated, black talons clicked together as the nerves tried to respond and resend messages to a brain it was no longer attached to. The Lady was astonished.
The Hexer had turned slightly from the dismembering strike, they now sluggishly carried the rest of their moment with a twirling blow that slide the tip of his blade across the bare chest of the monster. He felt the sword jump at every couple of centimeters as it tore through tissue, bone and cartilage - rendering the surface of some cardiovascular organs open into a shedding downpour of blood. The Lady crawled across the grains that poured from a sack sliced earlier in their combat, she was now the one desperate to leave the barn - sprinted out of it on threes, her wings spread out to grant her balance. She would not die here, in a barn where so many of her own prey had died at her fangs and claws. As soon as she hit the moonlight of the soon ending night outside of the barn, something struck her that nearly drained all remaining life from her in an instant.
Gilroy reloaded the hand-held crossbow they had concealed under their single remaining wing. A thick bolt stuck out of the spine of the Vampire, its tip coated in silver. Her wounds burned, as her blood was now boiling hot after consuming the intoxicated Hexer's hemoglobin. The Lady crawled, paralyzed from the mid-torso down - her remaining hand pushed away the half melted glass vial that contained the Black Blood Hexer potion Gilroy ingested earlier. The Lady gasped her last breath of air in the living realm as another and final bolt lodged itself between her ribs, through her heart and lung. She could see that across the river, the festivals have begun - as the water now had small, fancy boats with bright, glowing lanterns. Couples were out on a romantic evening, enjoying the beautiful, soft moving waters and the now calmed weather.
The Hexer let their crossbow drop, as it was now too heavy for their arm to hold and carry. Outside of the barn, they took up the butcherhook that hung off their hip and gripped it tightly. Whether it was a hallucination from blood loss, in combination with the intoxication from the potion and fatigue or a genuine sight - he did not know. The Lady had returned to a normal state, no longer a ghastly creature but looking still divine despite being mostly featherless and bare now. A few long, now bright red headfeathers covered one of her green eyes. As they hit their knees, Gilroy could have swore he heard the vampire lullaby leave the Lady's dying, motionless beak. "Birds are silent for the night, Cows turned in as daylight dies... " Gilroy's medallion had diminished to a low hum and then stopped completely as their chest crushed the glass vial on the ground. "But one soul lies anxious wide awake! " The Hexer rolled onto her side and discarded the butcherhook between the himself and the dying monster. He watched as all signs of life, or rather - whatever an excuse for life the creature may have had - drift away like a reflection of the moon in the river come dawn.
On his back, the Hexer laid. The bleeding had stopped. There was no an uncomfortable coldness, with only a soft warmth deep within their chest. Their wounds had stopped bleeding and therefor, the pain had succeeded and became nevermore. "Fearin' all manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths. " Gilroy sighed and closed his eyes, the birds have become silent and the festivities of the night started to begin in the fantasy-like city across the river. Yet, hardly any sound from them events carried on over to the blood drenched barn and the soft doll, getting frozen into the ground beneath a blue evening gown. "My dear dolly, polly shut your eyes, Lie still, lie silent, utter no cries... " And then, there was blackness. An easing blackness where no pain, no suffering and no hate seemed to exist. Merely a water of nothing, a consciousness fast asleep, unaware of its exist as if it were the beginning of time.
"As the Hexer, brave and bold, paid in coin of gold~ " Gilroy's yellow eyes opened as their beak gasped for air. The twisted wood that made the fences now painted a similar shade of yellow by the morning sun. The barn now looked warm and welcoming. All that was homely had died in the night, as the wind carries the scent of grass warm from melted snow. An orange hue was over the Hexer's face, their now healed wounds still hinted to by the thick layers of dark maroon, dried blood - which made him almost resemble the Lady's headfeathers the night before. "He'll chop and slice you, Gut and dice you... " Gilroy glanced over at the corpse of the Lady - which had succumb to the the rays of the sun, which detested vampires. Her beak was shriveled up, eyes dried out and her body, unprotected by feathers - looked like a dried up fruit. The corpse still emitted small twirls of smoke, ashes laid in the empty, soot-black eye sockets. "Eat you up whole. "
Gilroy limped out of the gate before they returned their silver sword to its sheath. Their butcher hook fastened back at their hip, empty. There was no way to identify the corpse as a trophy to bring as evidence to the contract owner, it was hardly distinguishable from a burn victim in this state. The Hexer began their trek along the dirt road from the modest farm land back into the neighboring village and from there - the small principality of Toussaint. He hoped the Black One would at least give him two thirds of the gold promised, trusting in the new scars that Hexer held would be more than proof enough. But, it was just as likely as not.
"Eat you whole...~ "
Author's Note
Here is the beginning of my new series and project, heavily inspired crossover of the Witcher universe written by Andrzej Sapkowski
The title of "Hexer" is borrowed from the original Polish television show of the same name that was the first attempt to portray the Witcher story in another medium
It has been a very productive year so far for me writing, let me hope this novel-sized first entry continues on track and on plan
Witcher universe belongs to Andrzej Sapkowksi and CDProject Red
Chapter 2 - The Screaming Vodnik
"The mutants are made from a combination of alchemy, magic and an intoxicating infusion of herbs during a ritual of some sort. These supposed defenders of the weak are in fact greedy as any other living being. They kill monsters for money. They are not a guild built on rich virtue, but rather willingly face ridicule because the life of a vagabond is convenient for them. Hexers, are above all, an abomination. Up in their little hold in Kaer Morhen, it would be best if they were simply thrown out of this world entirely. Monsters or no monsters, they bring nothing but woe with them. They don't care whose spawn they take, colt or fledgling - they are relics and deserve to be just that, left in the past."
~Sir Trottnam of Vengerberg, Fear and Loathing in the World of Equestria
Gilroy sat on the stool and immediately felt uncomfortable. It was obviously made for equine and not Gryphons, let alone those who walked around bipedal as officers in the Black Ones' military often did. They had to perch in order to find a comfortable ratio between sitting and not overshadowing the stallion who worked as the innkeeper in front of him. "Remind me again, why this place is called the 'Screaming Vodnik'?" The Hexer asked, perplexed over such a ridiculous name. As it was decently known among fisherman and bricklayers, Vodnik - also known as Drowners or the Drowned Dead, did not scream. They hardly yelped if you slashed their face with a sword. No, instead they gurgled and made disgusting gnashing sounds from their water filled mouths. "Just, enlighten me with the short story. Please. If you can." The Hexer had places to be when they decided to hunker down in this small village for the night. They were short on coin and with not a single piece to spare, thus why they had to take on a contract before even considering to purchase a room at the inn.
The long mustached stallion with a light blue coat had a similar complexion to a Vodnik himself. The old pony looked like he had seen his fair share of adventures and treks through the nearby swamp for which the village was famous for. In times of conflict, the village found itself at the crossroads of destiny - they had to pick a side at one time, for either the Black Ones or the Roanians. It was black hippogrifs versus ponies who bared a black eagle on their coat of arms. Absolute madness and a skirmish that lead to further dismay throughout Te'Mareia. The residents of the village did the only thing they could, they let both sides fight it out in the swamps until they were overwhelmed by disease, hunger and monsters. What remained of them became drowners, that lurked the murkey waters. The corpses that were fortunate enough to remain above water were devoured by necrophages - thus preventing their vessels from becoming horrid creatures.
"It is a long story. I was part of the Te'Mareian Guard at the time. Had a really nice, plosh job, you hear?" The Innkeep started. He washed some tankards and glasses with just his hooves and a wet cloth. A feat that managed to impress even the stubborn and uncaring Gilroy. "There was a bunch of those slippery Mucknixers running about - me and the boys had an idea, however. When the Roanians came in, they were trying to bleed us dry. Requesting supplies and what not."
"The Roanians were short on supplies?" Gilroy interrupted, he looked at his own tankard for a moment. Their armoured hand and gauntlet clicked against the hardened wood counter as his beak sipped at the mead. It was terrible, but for a single coin it was hard to pass up and not too hard on the budget as it might have been if he ordered a shot of vodka to go with it. "I thought they had a straight passage for supplies? After all, it was the Black Ones who had trouble keeping their line going - since they were treading through Te'Mareian territory at the time." The Black Ones, as they were called - where hippogriffs that came from the South. A vast empire that had nearly taken over the northern realms in the past conflict, a war that was thought to bring on a prophesied end of days. They managed to make their way through Naziar and Cintra - their navy supplied a considerable amount of the effort via the North Sea. Roania bordered Te'Mareia at the north - where the two met a compromise with their stubborn neighbor in Kaedwin to fight off the Empire.
The stallion nodded in agreement, he acknowledged that Gilroy was a veteran of the conflict, willing or otherwise. It was not uncommon to hear of a Hexer, even in these times, get thrown into the fray of things. Even though they were politically neutral, wars brought forward a tremendous amount of work for monsterslayers. Necrophages, wraiths, evil vegetation - but also, they were utilized indirectly as mercenaries. Having Hexers eliminate one area of monsters meant that they remainder may flee toward the enemy lines. It was funny, how in times of conflict - even the poor could spare a coin for the war effort, but entire villages would have to combine their savings to hire a single Hexer. "I had a feeling you knew a thing or two. The Roanians, they met up with us and wanted to scout ahead to where the Black Ones were bunkered down. But for a few bottles of mead, we let them in on a little secret..." The Innkeep spit into a glass and continued to clean. Gilroy felt a little revolted over this and hoped that he did not use a similar method for cleaning the tankards. "Of course, the secret was complete shit and we let them walk in through through the swamps and get bitten by Vodnik."
"So you let your own comrades die? And for what exactly?" Gilroy was suddenly offended at by how casually this information was being presented to him. They gripped their tankard a bit roughly and took a solid swig of the mead. It was supposed to taste like honey and vanilla cream, but instead it tasted like orange juice with a wad of spit and a little tinge of alcohol. "Even if they were your less than friendly neighbors, they were the ones giving Te'Mareia support while Kaedwin's king sent scholars to document your plunder."
The Innkeep scoffed, but quickly apologized. They finished drying the final glass and placed it on the shelf beneath the counter for later. The Inn was quiet as of now, it seemed the drunkards had drank their last and the whores have followed their customers home or vice versa. A fire was being kept by the Innkeeper's wife, a green mare gaining in age - she let the fire illuminate and define her wrinkles proudly as she looked up at a shield which bared the Te'Mareia coat of arms. A blue shield with three white lilies. "You see, we had a reason. Yes, they came to help out the cause and fight off the Black Ones from Nilfgaard, but there was this one - a sneaky... sneak thief! Pickpocket and frankly, we had enough of him snooping around our barracks and sleeping with our wives..." An awkward cough came from his wife as she pretended to poke more at the fire.
"So we did what we had to do. We told them to sneak up on a camp the Black Ones had via a route through the swamp. The daft ones actually took the path and got tore apart by Vodnik. They sent their scout sometime later to contact us. But, alas, he was so flustered and covered in muck - we thought he was a Black One and stuck him with a crossbow bolt." The Innkeep admiringly looked up at the shield above the fireplace himself. The fire did not cast an enchanting warm glow on his face as it did his wife, but it surely reflected in his eyes a time of glory and compassion. Or at least, what he thought was something to be prideful of - when he likely sat out the war, babysitting his home village while his brothers went off to fight and die. Gilroy assumed this because the Innkeep had a wooden rear leg. Judging by the scar just above it, it was not from a glorious defeat in battle, but a ludicrous encounter with a bear trap. Play stupid games, get stupid prizes. "The swamp had taken them, but being noble stallions of war, we went out and dragged the survivors through the muck and out the other side."
Gilroy sat and listened, unsure whether to believe the mad stallion or not while he drank the orange-water-alcohol solution in his cup. The Hexer used their heightened hearing to listen to the heartbeat of the pony, to determine whether he was lying or not from his increased pulse. However, it was more obvious that the old coot was merely passionately reminiscing about a moment from his past. Passion was a feeling that Hexers could not really feel themselves. There was nothing glorious or exciting about battle, it was either an absolute struggle or a one-sided ordeal. For common equine, it was always somewhere in between. "Low and behold, on the otherside actually was a camp set up by the Black Ones. Their commanding officer stood up on his hind legs, as you do - then called a full scaled assault against us. Those bucket heads with their winged helmets were no match for a bunch of soldiers who just braved the swamps full of Mucknixers, I tell you!"
The coot sat down again, having gotten too excited and waving his hooves about. He rearranged his false leg and continued the story that admittingly, now had caught the interest of the Hexer. "You see, they still managed to plow us back into the swamp. They tried to follow us but were terrified at the sight of the Mucknixers, flinging their wet corpses around and slashing their throats! They retreated and some tried to fly away - only to get ensnared by some deadly plant... We realized they were terrorized of monsters, so we got a viciously good idea!" The stallion licked his lips and played with his mustache a bit, he poured the rest of the mead for Gilroy - who unexpectedly started to drink up his mead quickly. "We met up with one of the painter lads from the village and got a bunch of blue and green paint. We painted ourselves up like Vodnik and charged the Black Ones the next night, I tell you this - we had to march through a kilometer of their shit just to get to them!"
Gilroy could not help but find it amusing after all. They bobbed their head a bit and even let out a light chuckle. He was not fond of the politics of either side, but it was one of the few war stories that actually deserved to have an Inn named after the exploits it entailed. "If I remember right, the fleeing Black Ones actually got cut up by stragglers from the Lyrian and Rivian side. In fact, they said that the Rivian Queen was guided by a Hexer, by pure chance..." The monster slayer mentioned, their eyes scanned to something that moved behind the Innkeeper suddenly. Something was in their backroom, their kitchen. It had knocked over some pots and pans. Suddenly, the notice on the board outside made sense. "I imagine, that is not the only reason your inn is called the Screaming Vodnik?"
The Innkeep became gloomy and looked over toward his wife, who cautiously made her way toward their own living quarters, which was down the nearby stairs and in the fruit cellar, where they fermented many of their drinks. "Our battalion got the name 'Screaming Vodnik' ever since. Also, because we had the reputation of boozing and whoring back in the village after the victory, while smelling like mucknixers the entire time... After the war, I decided to set up this little inn - most of the wood is actually taken from the swamps, you see?" The stallion gave a kick to one of the support beams with their non-wooden hoof. The beam was indeed, stable - as the swamp produced some enchanted trees that proved difficult for even the most proven woodcutters around. "But of course, there is something that brings the odd Vodnik around at night... they are mostly harmless, but as you can see - they drive away the customers come night. We haven't had a single person stay over night at this inn in weeks. All because of one of those slimey bastards..."
Gilroy could not help but take good humour in the irony that this was the only inn to truly live up to its name. They crossed their arms and with their feet talons, clawed deep into the wood of the floor to prevent themselves from tipping over in the stool. "Strange, Vodnik do not usually come this far out of the swamp lands to hassle even the most intrusive of fishers..." And with that, the humour left as the most unexpected sound a Hexer could ever conceive was heard. Indeed, it was a screaming Vodnik. One that must have had its vocal chords hexed by a sorceresses or perhaps evolved by some strange, druid root it gnawed on by sure chance. "I see this is a very... interesting case. Even for a Hexer." He returned to his front position on the stool, leaning over the counter a bit and slid a mostly empty coin pouch to the Innkeep. "This is for a single room tonight and a shot of vodka, something that doesn't taste like piss please. When I get back from the kitchen, I hope to see this pouch full..."
The Innkeep gulped, there was no use trying to negotiate a more fair price with the Hexer as a Vodnik continued to screech like an ill mother-in-law just meters behind them, knocking over utensils and stirring something around in a pot. He nodded and from there on end, the hunt was on. Gilroy hopped off of their stool and approached the backroom that was separated by a door behind the counter. They were wearing little more than an undershirt, leggings, foot wraps and a leather jacket. But for a Vodnik, it should not be too difficult and needing of armour or chainmail. They drew their silver sword and carefully started to open the door. As the wood cracked and the hinge squeaked, all sound became silent within where the food was prepared. No matter the mead was weak, looked like they had to water it down since something was drinking all of their booze in the back.
Gilroy instructed the Innkeep to go downstairs and bar the doors to the main entrance, not to mention - to ignore the vicious sounds they would soon hear from upstairs. The Innkeep was worried, as their private room was just above the kitchen and he was unsure if he could dodge any massive amounts of blood shed that would pour in through the boards above. The Hexer stalked the backroom and the stench was even more rotten to his enhanced senses than any well decayed pile of corpses could be. The fish taken earlier that day were now gutted and ripped apart, strewn across the floor. The mead bottles were half full and most of the contents spilled across the tables. The most disturbing was a suit of armour, that sat on display in the corner beside the flour. It matched the description of the story that the old coot had told. Painted blue, poorly at that - with a helmet made to resemble that of a Drowner. It smelled of the swamps - but Gilroy disclosed it could not have been what was attracting the Vodnik to the Inn. "What kind of drowner is this...?" The Hexer questioned out loud.
They sniffed the air, the scent was still strong of mead. They began to follow the trail, it lead from beyond the kitchen and to a loosely hatched window. The monster hunter stopped for a moment and returned the silver sword to its sheath. This just continued to get more interesting. Even he was surprised how he managed to do it, but Gilroy crawled out of the window and fell to the ground - but was able to catch themselves with a strong hand against the muck of the dirt, softened by the light rain they were getting that stormy evening. Back on his feet, the mutant continued to prowl and follow the scent. It grew stronger and stronger, before Gilroy found a new piece of evidence in this contract - that made the contract itself, even less clear. A bottle of mead, a droplet or two left at the bottom - rested against a tree stump. "A Vodnik out for a little drink...? Unlikely..."
The stench of bad mead mixed with that of the swamp, as the Hexer's trail brought him to the same path that the Roanians were set upon as a cruel joke. The swamp started out modest enough, the occasional Vodyanoi altar and various other statues to gods and goddesses. But before the heart of the swamp was met, Gilroy found another clue - this one causing even more confusion. Blood. They knelt down and rubbed some of it against the joint of a finger and gave it a strong sniff. It was pony blood. "Strange." They noted simply, standing back up - only to turn violently at the sound of violent sloshing of the waters around him. "Vodnik..."
Drowners were dastardly, disgusting creatures that inhabited both artificial and natural sources of water. They are made of mud and scum, they feed on those who bathe in rivers and like to pull drunkards into the water with them. A swamp was a perfect habitat for them. A total of three burst out of the murky waters toward Gilroy, dripping wet and just as ugly as they appeared in the Hexers' bestiaries. Skinny, tall and bony, they are bipedal beasts that do not resemble any living creature of this plane. More like sacks of raw fish guts, sewn together with the veins of an equine and with the face of a Vodyanoi fish-person. A knot of hair at the top of their enlarged heads, grimey green eyes, pulsating with a white, milk-like substance as it focuses on its prey. Its multiple sets of eyelids closing and opening as it lurches further.
The first one was cut down with ease, as Gilroy slashed its stomach open with their silver sword. Fish and small tadpoles swamp out of its gaping wound and it dipped back into the water from whence it came. Bright red blood bubbled to the surface for only a moment, its milky white eyes gazed out of the brownish water at the Hexer as its corpse began to float lifelessly. The second showed its teeth and bit at the air as it charged forward like a drowned corpse on stilts. Their webbed fingers could rend flesh like a well sharpened blade, Gilroy was sure to not let a single swipe make contact with them - as it would tear more off than a few feathers. The Hexer was well trained, however - the Vodnik proved to be little more than lame practice for the members of his guild. He swiped only two times and in those times alone, cleaved off both the arms of the creature and lacerated its chest. The final swipe had pierces its temples, then slide eye to eye - nearly decapitating the creature from the mandible upward. The soggy wet body promptly slumped hard into the mounds of muck they fought upon.
The third stood and waited, it was of a slightly red hue - an evolved, mutation of the typical Vodnik. While its brothers were a revolting green or blue, this one could be easily recognized. Its eyes white but with deep, red veins. A orange-webbed fin sat on the back of its neck, which expanded and collapsed as the creature wheezed. Its nails and talons a bright red, like its bretherans' blood. "Damn, you're ugly..." Gilroy stated before swinging heavyhandedly with their sword at the drowner. As if the creature itself could mock, it jumped back from the strikes before finally the Hexer had returned to a one-handed stance. The Hexer leaned down and with their free hand, dug into the mud a strange signature while the Vodnik watched.
Its slimy body glistened alongside the moonlight, it watched the Hexer intently with some sort of intelligence or at least, comprehension. Rather than step toward them from this angle, it quickly jumped to the side back into the muck of the swamp. Bubbles emerged to the surface but then quickly disappeared. Gilroy cautiously retraced their steps backward and made sure not to disturb the symbol they had made in the mud. The Vodnik swam around him wildly, occasionally it would peer up and splash at the surface to deceive him of an attack that never came. On the last occasion, it threw itself out of the water with a large handful of muck that was tossed at the Hexer. Gilroy shielded himself with their hand, which caught most of it - except for a large clod of wet dirt that him directly in the left eye. They turned and once again - carefully stepped over their symbol and hopped back again for a more defensive position.
From behind, the Vodnik emerged with an upward slash as it brought itself back up to land. Gilroy stumbled as he felt his side now had a bloody 'gil', which expended with each of his breaths. It was a deep cut, one that would become a deep scar against their muscle tissue. The Hexer regained their balance and quickly jumped from one small mud island to the other, as the ground seemed to break away due to the Vodniki digging underneath the path. The Drowner followed in suit and as planned, stepped right onto Gilroy's sigil within the mud. Several images of magic origin manifested in a vibrant, violet light - it was the sign Yrden, a trap for lesser monsters. The Vodnik seemed to acknowledge this as it found its movement impeded and down right impossible - as if there were now invisible strings that held their limbs in place, a magical goo that held their joints in their current position. It sneered, as it was angry.
Gilroy pulled back and formed both of their hands, despite one gripping their sword, to form a symbol and cast yet another sign - Igni. Sparks of fire emitted from his palms and hit the Drowner square on, lighting some of the nearby foliage, despite being soaking wet - ablaze as well. The Hexer's cat-like eyes widened as he heard the Vodnik scream at the pain of being burned alive. The flesh melted off of its bone and became a black slime which resembled tar. Its weak jaw fell from its mandible and soon the brain melted right out of the skull, but not after the eyes burst and splattered out from the sockets. Still stuck by the Yrden trap, it was only when the sign was released that the flaming corpse ,previously suspended display of burning bones, could distinguish itself by falling into the water. Gilroy felt satisfied, continuing their trek into the swamp - but still confused. The way that Vodnik screamed was not the same sound he heard at the inn. The Hexer was now utterly unsure of what exactly they were hunting and even if the Innkeeper could afford it.
"Aaayyy! Ayyooo!" There it was, that terrible screaming. Gilroy assumed a combat stance once again and started to move forward quickly, it was close - in fact, very close by. But now he heard it was not a drowner, it was none other than a pony. A stallion, with a voice that has become gravely and grisly as a result of age. Thus, it was fairly easy to confuse it for a monster's yelp. "Heeelp! Heeeelllp!" The screams became louder and louder, Gilroy honed in on them and darted through the muck, basically barefoot besides their feet wrappings. Their leather jacket now drenched in swamp fluids and torn open by a single strike from the Vodnik earlier, which had lacerated their side. Next time, he will head straight back to the city and not stop to take any rests.
"You have got to be kidding me..." Gilroy said as he stood over an old stallion, drunk out of his mind with a bandoleer of booze. Their uniform was tattered and outdated, but well worn and very well kept concerning its age. The Te'Mareian coat of arms just above the alcohol sash, the old equine also wore a crude helmet that resembled a Vodnik. The dumb drowners probably mistook him from one of their own, as he was slimy and just as smelly and stupid. Their knees bloody from falling around and bumping into things - they were in no danger at all, which was rare for a pony trapped in this gods-forsaken place. Gilroy scanned the site and realized it was a memorial of some sort. There were mounds of mud that were most likely once graves before being torn open by necrophages. A single sign, carved in the image of a thorny rose - crudely crafted by soldiers' bayonets stood just beside the largest mound. 'Here lies brave Roanians, dead of stupidity' it read. "Who are you and what are you doing out here!?" The Hexer interrogated the drunkard quickly.
"I am sir Plowbottom of Roanian Royalty! Eheheheh!" The drunk coughed out, he rolled around in the mud like an absolute mad cow before he tried to get back up on his hooves. Instantly, they stumbled and hit their armoured head against the gravemarker before drunken-trotting backwards and hitting a metal object concealed in the mud, that toppled them backwards. Gilroy came to his assistance. The Hexer dug out a bear trap, rusted in blood from decades prior, only to toss it into the nearby swamp water with a large splash. "Oh, what was that?! One of the Drowned Dead coming to haunt the old Inn of course! Ooooh!" The Drunk rolled around on his back again, sluggishly kicking their hooves out at the Hexer who was now seemingly drawing symbols that resembled flowers in the air with his fingers.
"Enough of this nonsense..." The Hexer completed the sign of Axii and soon, a soothing, almost-brainwashing effect overtook the maddening dribble that had occupied the intoxicated equine's mouth. Gilroy has hunted many monsters in their time on the Path, but every so often they encountered a demon that not even they could drive out. Alcoholism was abundant in the Equestrian Realms, whether it was Viziman Champion or Rivian Kriek, the 'drink' has caused more madness than a ravenous wyvern unleashed upon a city market. "Tell me, what is a fool like you doing out here in his Te'Mareian best, sloshing about a swamp? Or better yet, why are you breaking into your old comrade's inn?" The drunkard's eyes were empty, yet they widened in recognition of the Hexer's words. As if not intoxicated at all, the equine managed to stand on their own and with more balance than they have ever exhibited even while sober.
Gilroy crossed their arms and waited patiently for the answer. "The Innkeep was our battalion commander. He lead them Roanian boys into the swamps and got most of them killed. That stumpy legged fool deserves to be haunted by their Mucknixer spirits." The pony spoke as if in a zombified state. Suddenly, they snapped back to reality and felt as if their head was just dunked into water. They were surprised, but still aware of the conversation - merely confused by their sudden moment of clarity after the Hexer had made some shapes in the air. "Yes, yes, the Innkeep... the coward keeps all the glory for himself! He stepped on a bear trap so he would not have to charge the Black Ones with us, that he did. Oh yes, that he did - the coward, I should! I should!" He worked himself up and then straightened just as he made eye contact again with the icy gaze of the Hexer. It would be unwise to do anything foolish around that cat-eyed bird.
The mutant smirked and let their arms drop after a shrug. "Well, you have an interesting way enacting karma. But you folks and your superstitions have it all wrong. Vodnik are not from the souls of the dead, left submerged in the waters..." Gilroy began. He examined the gravesite closer now. There was something strange, they were not dug up by necrophages after all. Something from beneath had defiled the dead, the ground was fertilized somehow - Hexers being skilled herbalists, he could tell that there was some roots sucking moisture from the muck above it. These had to be big roots, roots that pulsated like the veins in a mammal. "Vodnik came from the conjunction of spheres. When the dead die a grisly, unfortunate death - their misfortune may curse the soil..." The ground shifted beneath them at that moment, the now sober equine had started to trot backward - ready to turn at a full sprint back to the village. "Run!"
The monstrous plant burst through the ground, its blood red pedals as thick as flesh. Rotted torsos of the dead were intertwined within its thorny stalk, the head of the beast an organic flower, gushing hateful bouts of unavenged blood. "Gods curse it!" The pony cursed, a tendril snapped at him like a whip and painted his uniform read with blood. The plant wrapped itself around the horse that had disturbed its slumber, indeed - this was an Echinop. Made from the sinful seeds of sin and crime, the soil had birthed a vengeful vegetation. "White one! Help me!" Gilroy often heard the sounds of the innocent and incapable calling out, but this time it was far more grim than he could imagine. The pony was crushed and eviscerated by the thorny body of the meat-flower. The skeletal remains peered out from the green binds - their unlatched jaws laughed as blood poured upon their white bones, covered in a sheet of thinning, rotted flesh. Silver slashed a tendril from the stalk, causing it fly into the swamp waters - leaving a painting of blood behind, to swirl upon the surface. The deadly flower responded promptly.
It crushed the remains of the pony and its vicious, venus-fly-trap of a head sucked in the bleeding guts of its victim before the corpse was cast at the Hexer. Gilroy did not flinch. The deceased basically wrapped itself around his legs, what remained of him at least - nothing but a pile of mangled flesh and broken bones that twitched. Smaller plants burst out from the mucky graves, lesser evolved variants of their mother host. Gilroy had to incorporate the style of the Gryphon School of swordplay. Viroledan Naev'de Feaine Glaeddyv. The 'Nine Swords of the Sun', a style utilized by the swordsmen of the Nilfgaardian hold - Viroleda. Where the highest quality of blades in the world were produced. Masters of this style were said to be able to fight nine opponents simultaneously. For the Hexer, this meant that the style's incredibly lucrative and complex slashing techniques would give them three hundred and sixty degrees of defense from the cursed vegetation.
The Hexer was agile without much armour to bog them down, they swung and turned, parried and half stepped away from strikes. The green tendrils would lash out for his eyes, but in a serious of swings they were severed and cast torrents of blood. It seemed that for every bare feather they had, a drop of blood had painted itself a design on it. Gilroy continued this deadly dance against the lesser plants before they charged the stalk of the Echinop. It was nearly his width, but four times his size. It swung at him like a mighty fist and would come flying down like a hammer. Gilroy was hardly able to avoid every single swipe and attempt at their life, eventually they would have to strike the plant where it would severe it entirely from its life-bearing roots in the ground. Their silver sword carved a line or two into the thick, green vines - which bled as the haunting corpses of Roanian infantry of war's past cried as if being struck by a sword themselves.
Eventually, the plant got the better of him. It swooped across the horizontal plan and knocked the Hexer down into the mud. Their wrist struck a hard rock concealed by the muck with great force. Gilroy could feel the small bones in his wrist crack and the cartilage give away altogether. The Echinop raised itself up only to slam itself on top of the monster slayer. It was successful, Gilroy felt the force of what was at least four fat bastard pile on top of him, their ribs nearly gave away at the pressure alone. As the plant pulled away from his body, the Hexer could feel a sharp thistle slowly exit his abdomen. Gilroy's eyes were shut from the pain, but when they opened they were gifted with the grinning skeleton of a Roanian. Its decayed mouth grabbed the Wolf medallion off of the Gryphon's chest and when the rest of the plant went upward, it pulled the Hexer by the neck as well. Hanging from the nearly unbreakable chain of their silver relic, Gilroy's broken hand laid limp by his side as their feet dangled. Their Sign-forming hand clawed into the green flesh of the plant, whose fly-trap head was soon to reach down and bite into the bird.
Gilroy flapped his single wing and pushed themselves upward toward the corpse of the Roanian pickpocket embedded in the planet. The handle of their still-sheathed steel sword implanted itself into the eye of the living corpse, which made the whole plant screech like a Vodnik on fire. Gilroy let himself fall from this angle, the medallion being ripped out of the rotted jaw of the skeleton on the way down - returning to its owner's chest. Like a cat, the Hexer landed perfectly and took in the momentum from their fall to be turned into a quick dodge - which avoided a tendril that spiked out for his vitals. With one hand broken, they only had a single one free for Sign usage. Using a tactic they had deployed earlier, the Gryphon quickly drew another sigil into the mud and was sure not to disturb it as they hopped away from the plant that came crushing down yet again.
Yrden activated and the Echinop was ensnared in the magical trap. It whined and moaned with the throats of a hundred dead. Gilroy grabbed their silver sword from the muck with their casting-hand and dragged it across the 'stomach' of the plant. To the Gryphon's complete lack of surprise, equine guts poured out from the wound and the Hexer continued their gardening work. They perched themselves on the plant which was pinned to the ground by mystical kinetic forces - from there, they began to slice and hack every flesh-pedal and tendril from the stalk. Hooves reached out from the dead, trapped within the cursed green vines, but Gilroy showed no mercy for them either. He sliced the corpses and watched as not even bone marrow dripped from their wretched visage. The Hexer continued across the vegetarian totem pole of death and finally neared its fly-trap head. The mouth and its thorny teeth snapped, but to no avail. The silver sword, even when dealt in the opposite hand, cleaved the head of the creature off with a single swipe.
The mutant planted their feet back into the mud, but knew that the monster and its roots needed to be killed from the ground up lest the curse become reborn again after a single rain. His silver sword fastened into its sheath, the Hexer cast the sign of Igni with a single hand and from their palm - a spark of embers which ignited a vicious fire. The Echinop roasted before the eyes of every Vodnik in the swamp. The wet environment would prevent the fire from progressing, which was exactly what Gilroy anticipated. The Hexer left the now charred remains of the stalk where it lay - upon the graves of the deceived Roanians that started the curse in the first place. On their trophy hook - the head of the Echinop. Gilroy never thought that a plant could have a face, but then again - he never heard one scream before either. The overgrown venus-fly-trap at his hip looked like it was still screaming in pain, painted a rosy red in its own blood.
Covered in muck and smelling greatly of the swamps, exhausted and fatigued - it was not a surprise that a crossbowmen of the village's Te'Mareian Night Guard would launch a bolt into Gilroy's chest. It was dark, as it had just been dusk and Gilroy returned after the rumour of a "deadly Vodnik that ate a Hexer up" was spread across town via the feverish town gossips - who wished to turn the smallest of events into the biggest ones among their groups of friends. Gilroy received payment after a brief visit to Te'Mareian medical tent and soon, the Inn was renamed after its trophy piece - which sat on the mantle where the coat of arms once did above the fire. This was the story of how the Screaming Vodnik became the renowned Fly Trap - home of Te'Mareia's worst honey mead!
Author's Note
Gilroy returns from a long journey to encounter something rather peculiar
Yet another entry in this attempt at a series
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Chapter 4 - The Eternal Fire II: A Lesser Evil
"The wicked Forefather Kreve had pushed the ponies toward the city of brick, Novigrad. It was abandoned, little knew who previously occupied the hold. A strange glow emitted from one of the palaces, in it was a goblet of fire and a strange being. The guardian stated that it had a single job, to keep the fire going for an eternity. But alas, this prophet grew old and wanted to die in peace. The followers of the wicked skygod Kreve had raped and murdered those who were left behind in the initial retreat. Brave colonists came together, both pegasus and earth pony - they worked together to keep the fire going for the guardian told them before he disappeared: 'Guard this fire and for as long as it is kept burning, you and your kin shall survive even the harshest of conflicts. Monster and Equine.' The forces under Kreve were instantly humbled when they entered the temple and began to worship the Eternal Fire, as they knew it was a sign of divinity that would save them from the monsters that inhabited Northern Realms. Pagans became believers and went into the forests, perhaps as the guardian did. Never to return or be heard from again. The Eternal Fire burns to this day in Novigrad. Protecting equine from the dark with its endless illumination."
~Kilopi the Monk, An Eternal Flame to Save Us All
"We cannot charge in. If we go in with swords pointed for their throats, they will just kill the hostages and find even more reason to continue their war." Gilroy bargained. When the Hexer thought, they merely stood in place to conserve energy. Selig was restless, he paced back and forth - his wings would flutter on occasion in frustration. In his face, he would not show his worry or his devout doubt that this would end in any way other than blood shed. His men were eagerly behind him, pegasus and pony alike. They wanted blood, their spears fastened to their sides and small axes and blades rigged to their gauntlets. Some of the stallions were huge and bulky, strongly built - others were lean and quick, probably able to hop on their hide legs for more agile attacks if necessary. Pegasus archers and crossbow men flew above in circles, to ensure they had complete security and visual on all things that entered and exited the building. It was unneeded, since the Scoi'tael had entered through the ruins the Hexer foolishly cleared out for them. But procedure was procedure, it also gave the folks and locals some calmness. The colts and fillies were delighted to see the knights and soldiers out in their formations on the ground and in the sky. The Te'Mareian army was no where in sight. The Order ruled around here, obviously - with little restriction.
Selig paused and finally nodded, they had concluded that Gilroy's approach might be the most intelligent - while it seemed to lack the tactical advantage that the knight was only considering before. "The Squirrels, they likely are buried in and entrenched deep. They have some up high, in the support beams - to shoot down at us, while their strongest fighters, the dwarves: surely they have conjugated behind the counters where they could slip out into the fray of things unexpectedly." Selig was intelligent, obviously he did more than just study books on strategy, he lived and breathed it. He must have studied guerrilla tactics for years or simply - he had applied the tactics monsters often use to prey on equine to the tactics of the Squirrels. "Our armour is strong, fortified like Foltest's castle, but it would be useless against dwarven hammer, sickles and axes. Those Elven antlers and arrows could pike us in all the exposed parts of our armour as well. We cannot negotiate with terrorists, but perhaps we can convince them to come peacefully and lay down their arms. Enough blood has been shed today, Hexer."
"You are exactly right." Gilroy uncrossed their arms and checked under their wing for their crossbow, to make sure it was still there. It might come in handy. With their mutant senses, he could hear the heartbeats of the commando that set themselves up inside near the entrance. Selig was right, there was some light wheezing which came from the support beams above. They were either very nervous, anticipating their own ambush - or they were weak and could hardly fight the fatigue of breathing air into their own lungs. Those odds were indeed on their side, but it would not be enough. "They are not going to last much longer. If we had more time and no hostages in there, we could easily wait them out after we collapsed the ruins underneath. They would starve in a day or two, maybe more if they are all hopped up on fisstech and have brought some dwarven nourishment to keep them warm during the night. Either way, they are ravenous for more than just blood."
The Knight nodded. "We must appeal to them, if only to enforce their surrender." Selig raised a hand and then slowly brought it down. His men were disappointed, they were ready for war - but instead, they would be put on standby and told to wait until given further instructions. The Order was all about orders, Gilroy was impressed with how disciplined these zealots were compared to the common troop that inhabited the ranks of the Te'Mareian army. Foltest's units had a lot to learn from the Order. He wondered just how many of them former knights under the three lilies, before they traded in one flower for another. The Burning Rose did not pay, they lived off the donations given to the Eternal Fire. It granted them food and somewhat prestigious living, but most of them were confined to a vow of silence, celibacy or poverty - sometimes all three. "Hold fast, men. The Hexer and I are going to try and provoke their hearts into seeing the light of the Eternal Fire. Only those who give mercy, shall receive it. For our material actions will burn in the Eternal Fire, leaving only our spiritual ones to represent us." Selig would have been a better priest than a knight. If his father wasn't such a hard headed basket case, perhaps this gryphon would have been doing something more pacifist in life. Then again, there was nothing truly pacifist about advocating the death of non-equine.
Gilroy and Selig cautiously walked up the obsidian steps, only to pause at the door. Selig straightened their back and with them, their wings narrowed to give him a somewhat taller appearance - while also helping in the amplification of his voice. "Scoi'tael! We have not come to give you peace, but a sword!" The Hexer exchanged a glare of confusion with Selig that could only be described as a 'what the fuck are you doing'? The gryphon knight shrugged and returned to the task at hand. "Ye who lives by the sword, shall die by it. I ask you to no longer die by the blades of equine and equine defenders. Co-existence may not be possible, but we all live within the borders of one another. We cannot keep this fight going forever!" What a way with words, somehow he managed to both sway the elves into talking while at the same time - reaffirming the faith and commitment of his own men. Selig was too young, brave and smart to be in a bloody business like this. What was he doing, being a mere pawn in this all?
"Gryphon, are you accompanied by another? A certain, Gilroy of Gryphonstone?" Mansi, out of all of the hostage takers, was the first to call out. Gilroy could hear the stag's steps toward the door from a previously concealed position, where they waited in ambush. They shrugged off a quiver of arrows from their back and let them hit the wooden floor stained in the blood of a dead mare. Their antlers were bare, but his comrades were not. He was just as untrusting of the Order as the Order was of them. There was no such thing as negotiations between the two, compromise was a foreign word that did not exist in either language. Not even dwarven. "You recruit a Hexer among your ranks and expect us to believe your pleas of a non-violent conclusion? Bloede Dh'oine! Yn will cáemm ninnau with a sword aép hand!" Mansi was not pleased, his speech had slurred into a combination of Elder and Equine. He was also exhausted, his eyes were heavy like water falling over a mountain.
"Mansi, let us find some kind of compromise. We are going in one way or the other, you can either have you and your commando unit die in unglorious, unheroic bloodshed - or you can have some dignity." Gilroy pleaded, they heard the Elves speak among each other in Elder Speech. They were concerned that if they did go peacefully, they would only face torture or immediate execution anyways. They knew the gallows would wait for them, it was only suitable it would be in their own ancestral home of Wyzma. Whatever it was called before the ponies came, it was an Elven city of high culture. They were too young to remember it, but they still grew up around it all the same. Whether in the non-equine districts, the reservations or the forest surrounding the floating city. Across the small river around the city was shoreline that had a cave, it was where many of them had found refuge in these trialing times. Unknowing of the extent of the Hexer's hearing, they all pleaded with Mansi for a chance to retreat and at least rest. But with all the orens they had packed up, if they did walk away, they might die from the exhaustion of carrying it back to their shoreside in the first place. A lost cause with no end in sight. Just like their war. "They will give you a fair trial. I cannot say that you will not hang, but you understand why, don't you? You were the ones that spilled first blood here, not the equine. You are the transgressors, this time - Mansi."
"First blood... first blood?!" Mansi was deeply offended, the last two words spat from his mouth as if they were poison leaves. He pranced around in a rant, his followers also followed his disillusionment. There was no way out of this, they were going to die here - it was predetermined by causality. They were to be martyrs surely. No one would remember their name, but they would remember their blood. "First blood? This is Elven Blood, Dh'oine! You came here centuries ago and spilled our blood, our land, our families. Now... now we have returned, for this is the consequence that you all must pay! Now it is your blood and your families, but it is still our land! We are Aen Seidhe!" It all came together now. Elven nationalism, equine nationalism. A non-equine lead the equines and dwarven equins followed the deer. It was madness, all of it. The only conclusion of madness is the fruit of it all - violence, chaos and dismay. "Kill them all!" Mansi gave the orders. The dwarves looked among each other and shrugged. They, themselves, had trouble discerning what their commando leader was discussing with all the Elder Speech being thrown around. When Dwarves assimilated, many of them forgot the Elder Speech. Thus why Mansi gave the order in Common, now the blood of equine would run until all is wet with it. The walls of the blank were now being splattered with red dots, from crushed heads from blunt hammers and axes.
Selig formed a fist and thrust it upward in the air. The golden bars from the windows were pulled off with the large axes and sickles some of the Order carried. Ladders were leaned in across the windowsills and allowed for the light armoured infantry to climb into the bank from numerous entry ways. The pegasus archers hovered above the crowd and started to launch their bolts and arrows through the windows of the upper floor - most of them found a target in the brains of the deer marksmans who set up there. Once the top windows were clear, the pegasi too - began their forceful siege of the bank. Selig kicked the door in - he was surprised to find that it was only barred closed by a few tables and chairs. The furniture scattered and soon the entire ground floor of the bank resembled the Battle of Brenna. Elves have spent many seasons scratching their antlers against trees, those same movements would be incorporated into their sword style - which required the handle of the blade be held in their mouth. Gryphons and Hippogifs often mocked the poor swordsmanship of equine and similar species, the weapon required a hand not a strong jaw. Yet, there was something graceful and exquisite about the movements of the deer in combat - who easily overcame the equine Order knights. Among this dance of steel - the dwarven ponies flailed about and swung their bodies as if they were a true extension of their weapons.
Skulls cracked as helmets dented and flesh split as blades sliced. Yet, between the casting of blood and bodies - Gilroy and Selig still remained the centerpiece of it all. The dwarves were able to now appreciate the movements of Hexer swordsplay in a well lit room, unfortunate that it would be the last thing they saw. The monster slayer was just as adept at slaughtering non-monsters to the horrid surprise of all around him. The first dwarves that swung their axes at Gilroy now laid headless on the deck - blood still cast from their neck stumps by the time the Gryphon had sliced the head of the berserker unit. A hoof flew into the air with a tuft of beard, the body twirled and painted a trail of crimson to its final resting place. It happened so quick and so sudden, it might as well have been a flash. The Elves would prove more difficult, as their antlers were not only another weapon to be used at their disposal - but many of them have been modified with steel talons and hooks. Two Scoi'tael stags circled the Hexer, they moved in and out in a whirlwind of moves. Antlers and blades clashed against the steel tempered by the monster slaying guild, but they too - were overcame with a few swings that proved to dismember easily. Monsters were the only true challenge for Gilroy - there was a reason his guild so rarely pulled a blade against the equine and elder races. It was unfair in every way.
Selig, with their heavy and broad sword, cleaved a dwarf down the middle. The golden helmet split in two and crashed into the blood soaked boards. "Masterfully done, Hexer!" A prestigious fighter himself, yet the honourable knight could only compliment his ally in this fragile alliance. The knight rescued his blade from the corpse and gave it a prompt kick to the floor. A deer pranced from over the counter toward him, but the Order Knight gutted them with a wide swing. If he had timed it better, the strike would have severed the stag in half. The bank at this point - now smelled like the ruins bellow. "Witness our victory, brothers!" Selig rallied what remained of his men, the ones that still stood had proved their worth - while the deceased would be remembered fondly as heroes. This was a cult that only found glory in death and killing. All for the greater good of course. Yet, the Hexer still recognized there was a bit of doubt in the face of Selig. There was no honour in the hacking of starved stags and drunken dwarves. At the end of the day, the Order would still be dubbed the champions of this skirmish - even though when the clash first began, the hostages all had their throats gouged, slit or crushed.
Gilroy pulled himself away for a moment. Their blade was gripped by both hands, their stance wide and at their feet - numerous fighters they cut down in literal seconds. He felt his abilities had just been misused. Evil, lesser and greater - if the monster slayer had a choice they would pick either. But it was he who drew first blood, the hostages were taken because of his carelessness, his Hexer neutrality and gryphon inherited greed for coin. "Mansi slipped away." Littered with the dead, the survivors of the short fight had to step over the bodies and make their way toward the stairwell downstairs - to the vaults. At this rate, the surviving squirrels must have decided to leave the loot behind and run for their lives via the ruins. "Your men should stay behind, you too Selig. I can handle Mansi." Gilroy could not believe the words that came out of his own mouth as if they were suddenly gifted with the knowledge of another language. Maybe the chivalrous vows that their fellow gryphon swore to had started to rub off onto them.
"It would be against my duties to not pursue these criminals, white one. Not to mention, you have fought valiantly alongside me as a friend - I cannot let you go alone." Selig quickened their steps and halted the men that followed behind. They wheezed and coughed, some had to nurture their wounds and a break never hurt anyone after all. Their commander still had some smears and patterns of splatter on them that only boosted morale, for none of it was his. Yet, the bloody Hexer inspired fear in them all. The mutant was resented in their eyes and they could not understand their commander's sympathy for him. A fragile alliance, ready to fall apart at the next crack. "As a knight, I bestow upon you my temporary servitude - for the greater good of the Order. Hold fast, men! The Hexer and I will kill the Elven leader. Be wary of ambushes and find any stragglers!" The gryphon ordered as he descended to the vaults with Gilroy. At the bottom of the stairs laid a single dead elf, having bled to death before they could continue their struggle back to their shoreside camp.
Mansi panted and gasped for air as he pranced through the hole in the back of the vault. Most of the currency was gone after all, they had spent the night transporting it elsewhere. They did not merely sit and wait til dawn in the cold vault, they had emptied it. The orens, florens and gods know what else would fund the cause across all the Northern Realms. The commando leader was satisfied but distraught. They peered back briefly at the hole which lead to the vault as they nearly frolicked through the ruins' primary chamber. But when they were eyes-front once more, the two remaining of his unit froze and quickly slumped down to the ground with a thud. "So, you have cut away our escape, Dh'oine?" The stag interrogated, two figures stepped out from the darkness of the passageway and into the light of the chamber. Two crossbowmen, sturdy yet lean stallions that bared jerkins and armour of blue and white vertical stripes. They were the Te'Mareian special forces, the Blue Stripes. "Two scouts? They send two scouts to deal with me and not an entire battalion?" Mansi seemed offended.
One Blue Stripe took a step forward and raised their hoof. The crossbow was a device fastened to the equine's leg, they merely had to place a bolt and pull back with their mouth - beneath the bow of the weapon was a small lever they could pull to launch the projectile. A large deviation from the original gryphon design, which of course - had a trigger and required appendages to operate. "Non-equine whoresons like you go down pretty easily once out of your element." The other scout stood on their hind legs and prepared their own crossbow, the stand off had begun. Mansi turned their head sharply to the right and pulled their curved, jagged blade from its sheath on his back. "Damn elves and their curved swords..." The leading scout muttered. These deadly weapons were hard to block, doge and parry. Especially when you had but a ranged weapon and not a dagger or sword yourself.
"Give up, Squirrel. Te'Mareian special forces stand in front of you and behind you - a Hexer and a Knight of the Order." Selig non-nonchalantly announced their presence, as Gilroy and himself stepped through the hole in the vault into the chamber. His ally glanced at him again in confusion. Knights had no sense of subtly, every word had to be dipped and glistening in poetry which somehow reflected the vows they have taken upon themselves. Selig held their helmet under his arm, it hovered just above their sword's handle, which comfortably sat in the sheath at his hip. "Turn yourself in, I guarantee the Blue Stripes will treat you better than the Order shall. By the Eternal Fire, there is no fair trial waiting for you now after all the blood that has been shed by your kind. We will see you flogged, de-antlered and lacerated before you hung from the gallows."
Mansi stood on all fours, a wide stance for each set of legs, front and rear. They were ready to spin and twirl around the room, being a swordmaster - there was no doubt of their skill. Instead, they let the sword drop to the stone floor. Silence. The only thing that could be heard was the echo of dripping water. "The gallows have had my name for a long time." The elf stood tall and proudly. Their decorated antlers, with all of its additional pikes, hooks and steel teeth - raised to the air. "I surrender." Gilroy narrowed his eyes and tried to hear the deer's heartbeat. He was calm, not a single beat too high or too low. It was hard to determine the honesty or the deceit of Mansi. Elves could be so prideful, even in the wake of defeat there was a song to be told about this years from now. Mansi would be martyr, perhaps that was their original intention. "Wyzim has already been bled dry of its wealth. I will swing happily, but I will also swing free. Knowing my brothers and sisters will have more than enough to fund this conflict for another decade if we have to."
The scout smirked, he looked to his standing comrade who shared a glance and then both of them chuckled loudly. Eventually, it became full blown laughter before they finally contained themselves. A vicious grin on his face, the scout remarked: "Your smugglers were caught just outside of Roper's Gate. They already hang from the gallows in the town quarter." Mansi's heart rate became increasingly high at that. Gilroy did not know if the Blue Stripe spoke the truth or not, but with the reputation of Te'Mareia's special forces being avid non-equine hunters and killers, it was most likely true. The Scoi'tael leader played it over again and again in his head. The heist was a distraction to let gather all of the guards so that they may smuggle the currency through the very entrance to the city. From there, they could distribute it evenly among their contacts in the outskirts and get the orens, florens and so on where they needed to be. But it was the Order that replied to the call of duty, the Te'Mareian forces remained at the gate and caught his brethren which were now corpse-wind chimes for filthy dh'oine. "Don't worry, Rudolf - we were sure to saw off their antlers nice and slow like..."
It was the dwarves that were said to be able to enter battle in a frenzy state, going completely berserk and mindless - only to leave destruction and bloodshed in their path. Gilroy did not anticipate to see just how far Mansi could push his own abilities. They quickly bit the handle of their discarded sword and had leaped over the two equine. Before they could fire a single bolt, the swordmaster had sliced the wooden apparatuses off of their hooves. Defenseless, the lightly armoured scouts were eviscerated shortly after being disarmed. Mansi slashed the lead scout's face, which also crippled his helmet and let it go rolling across the stones on the floor. With an upward gash, they cut a major artery in the pony's neck and then leaped - twirling mid and forcing all of that momentum into a slash that diced the Blue Stripe's scull diagonally. The elf rolled their head back and sliced all four legs off of the soldier before he quickly slashed the chest of the remaining scout. The poor stallion did not stand a chance, the curved lad cleanly amputated a hoof and their head was impaled by the weaponized antler's of their enemy. By the time both of the corpses stopped twitching and squirting blood, the Blue Stripes appeared more red than blue.
"Witness!" Selig pointed a talon and exclaimed. It was loud enough to startle the Hexer at his side, who had unsheathed his steel sword for yet another deadly dance. The Knight quickly bared their helmet over their ghastly feather bowlcut and charged into the battle without any regard for his own safety. Gilroy thought he was mad like his father, perhaps this would be a story of Selig's end that would grant him fame within his own Order as well. His broadsword was lifted from its sheath and held in two, armoured hands. Suddenly, the colour scheme of the armour made sense. The red blood complimented the rose on the center. The rose represented the blood of brotherhood, of equine and its defenders. Gilroy never thought much of symbols, let alone ones that were of supremacy and nationalism - yet the Order had proven to make one just as iconic as the Scoi'tael's use of squirrel tails as decorations for their guerrilla combat uniforms. "Witness me, Hexer! For I am awaited by the Eternal Fire!"
The knight swung their heavysword with the strength and speed of an equine on fisstech. Their muscles surely must have ached from that extensive of an exercise of swordplay. One downward strike had nearly rendered an entire branch of Mansi's antlers, but was knocked back by the strength of the elf. Gilroy quickly ran into the engagement, but even their swordplay proved slow for the skilled swordsmaster. Selig and Gilroy's blades sliced and diced the air, but had difficulty hitting a vital place on the agile stag. Mansi rolled across the ground, only to spring up and somehow prance over the two standing gryphons. The Scoi'tael commander gored Selig in the side. The antlers, tipped in rugged steel teeth and hooks, pierced the armour of the gryphon and then yanked themselves in the opposite direction. The Knight of the Order was flung through the air, but their heavy armour only made their collision to the ground loud and painful. Selig was of many words, but after this injury - they suddenly spoke none.
Gilroy had faced monsters and beasts with horns or antlers before. But so few had the intelligence, the training and the grace that a Deer had over their own. The Hexer felt as if they had started a fight with three or four skilled swordsman at once. The steel blade was constantly parried against the antlers, before eventually - they caught they blade at the right angle and with a twist - sent the sword flying toward the wall of the chamber. "Dh'oine lovers! You have chosen to assist those who will only persecute you until the end of your days!" Mansi taunted, before the Hexer could cast a Sign to defend himself - the deer bucked him hard onto the ground. He quickly propped himself up, but kept low to the ground. The Hexer had retrieved their crossbow from beneath their wing at this time, with a bolt ready and set to fire - they took aim at the Deer. "Once they finish my race off, they will hunt you to the seas! They will enter Toussaint and rustle your cages, smash your unhatched eggs against the rocks!" A bolt whistled through the air, but in a graceful jump and twirl the deer had avoided it with the well rehearsed dodge.
Quick to try and place another bolt into crossbow, Gilroy looked down momentarily but was struck with an antler across the face soon after. He took the momentum and rolled, soon they were back on their feet with only one option. Mansi charged them and the curved sword narrowly missed the tip of his beak. "No matter who dies here, the Scoi'tael will have the last laugh! When we elder races are long gone, the equine will eventually just ethnically cleanse themselves to the point of extinction!" Perhaps the deer was right, the equine races had a tendency to nearly wipe each other out every other year. The Northern Realms have only enjoyed a brief peace as a result of the conclusion of the war with Nilfgaard. Much like the fragile alliance Gilroy once shared with Mansi during the wraith contract, things would change quickly and surely. Consequences for every action. "The age of the sword and ax is here! And soon the land will be drenched with the blood of elves, the time of contempt will run all over your civilizations built on deer and dwarven ruins! Then, the world will be lost in the White Frost!" The elf spurted out their own dirge, works of poetry and contemplation over philosophy and prophecy. Impressive, considering they still managed to say all of this with the handle of a blade clenched between their teeth.
The Hexer unsheathed their silver sword and twirled it over and under. Mansi retreated momentarily but charged up front with another flail of antlers and his curved blade. Gilroy side stepped and dropped to a single knee, the sword which was posed behind him - sharply shot upward at an angle and sliced the tip off of Mansi's face. "Now you really do look like Rudolf." The mutant commented, the elf had pranced backward and threw themselves toward the shadows of the passage way which lead to the exit of the ruins. Without their front lips and nose, it was impossible for them to grasp their elven sword. Mansi snarled, as his face curved with anger, it only squeezed out more blood from their grisly wound. "Look at you, you are no different than the Blue Stripes or the Order. You are a bigot and a monster, you have become what you hate. You have assimilated - Mansi. Just not in the way you might think." Gilroy approached them casually, standing with a non-defensive stride and the sword idled, pointed downward in one hand. "What is the point of it all, Mansi? I am not here to take sides, no one can be right when both sides are wrong. The Order, the Scoi'tael... you hate each other and you let that hate rule your lives. But no - I am not here to judge or join one monster or the other. You killed innocents today, that is blood you have forced upon my talons..."
Mansi gulped down a pint of blood, it was more than enough to make him feel sick. He backed up slowly as the Hexer approached. "That sword is for monsters..." Their eyes dotted toward the silver sword and his head nodded toward it. Gilroy briefly lifted it up to view their own reflection in it. The deer was right. It was not a sword for self defense, it was silver meteorite crafted in the image of the School of the Wolf. It was a weapon Hexers carried not to defend themselves, but all of Equestria from the terrible things that surrounded campfires at night, lurked in bogs or swamps. This weapon was as much as a Hexer as Gilroy was. It did not need sleep or nourishment, it did not fear ghouls, hags or wraiths. The sterile mutant swung it once toward the ground, which drained its visage of the deer's blood. He sheathed it slowly, then looked back up at the Scoi'tael commander. "Vatt'ghern... Scoi'tael are not monsters. We are outcasts just like you. You know what it is like to be thrown out of villages, to be sneered at just because of what you look like, the way your eyes are formed in your skull... I tried to live a normal life, Gwynbleidd. The gods did not make the world like this, equine did. If not for Dh'oine and Dh'oine lovers like you and that knight, I would be happily fishing or hunting somewhere on my ancestral lands... When will you learn that you and I are a leaf on the same branch?"
Gilroy shook his head. "No, you are wrong. I am not like you. Not because Hexers are neutral. I did not have a choice in being what I am, but I still live with it everyday. Even if it means I am spat on. Colts and fillies run away from me, villagers close their shops and husbands hide their wives. I am more of a monster than you ever will be, but you have a chance to assimilate. Even a shitty life for you is better than the Path I walk." The Hexer stepped back and examined the leaky passageway. It looked like even more water has managed to drip into the ruins from the crowd that stood on the streets above. "I am sorry equine have driven your people so far, Mansi. But if you wanted to make a point, you could have done it by proving the equine wrong. That you aren't savages. Instead, you only discredit your own race and those who have assimilated will now face persecution because equines fear elves. Because of you, there is going to be a pogrom for non-equine up there."
"So be it, then, so be it! What is the point of living among Dh'oine? They drink, they fornicate, they hit their young - they have no sense of right and wrong but stark contrasts. This is a world ruled by them now, so yes - I have assimilated, Vatt'ghern. I have become the very demon they tell stories about, a cautionary tale as to why you should not help the poor deer on the side of the road, begging for food." Mansi spit a large clot of blood at their feet. His body shook, he was hungry, thirsty, fatigued and now losing a lot of blood. He knew this was the end for him. Whether he succumb to his own injuries or the hands of the Hexer, he did not care. He closed his eyes and raised his head one last time, they imagined themselves in the meadow, in the forest. Where everything was harmonized, at peace with one another. Nature lived alongside them, it gave and it took away. It gave life and it gave tragedy. It as the order and balance to things, the wheel of death and rebirth that was simply turned to disease, famine and genocide by equine. "End this existence for me, Gwynbleidd. My ancestors are smiling upon me and somewhere, my beloved Frija is watching..."
The Hexer cast the sign of Aard and the Deer was launched down the passage. The walls gave way and dirt rushed into the corridor. Mansi screamed out in one final feeling of pain before he exited this world, the ceiling collapsed on top of him and a torrent of sewer watered poured over the site that would become his grave. The crowd above felt the tremors and screamed, for they thought that the elves have done something terrible. No amount of chivalrous knights would be able to contain the small lynch mob that had now gone tavern to tavern, hanging dwarves and deer who lived in the poor, non-equine districts. "May you find some peace from your hatred Mansi, sadly Wyzim is cursed and it will only last another hundred years." Gilroy sighed and looked upon the grave one last time. Their talons fumbled with their medallion, there was no vibration or rumble. Thankfully, Mansi did find some peace and would not return a wraith to haunt these ruins as Aelivan Nosaen once did.
The Order would later enter the chamber to recover the bodies of the Blue Stripe scouts, as well as their gravely injured commander Selig. The Hexer was no where to be found. The corpses of the Scoi'tael were left to rot beneath the bank for years to come until they chamber itself would collapse after a tremor. A once prestigious bank became a shrine and memorial to the brave Knights of the Order that perished there. Renovated and refurnished, the bank became a meeting place for Church of the Eternal Fire members as well as a recruiting lodge for the Order. Since the incident, racial skirmishes became more frequent in the outskirts of Wyzim and its non-equine districts. The Order remained bigoted and brutal. Selig was promoted to Captain of the Guard and began to take on duties that were once exclusive to the Te'Mareian military in ensuring the peace of the residents of Foltest's capitol city. When the Hexer's doings were discovered in relation to the escorting of Elves through the ruins, a campaign against the mutants was launched by the Eternal Fire - a campaign that would spread across all of Equestria. Selig, despite his position and chivalrous vows to the Order - promised and ensured that no one would spite Gilroy's name directly. To this day, the gryphon knight has affectionately defended his friend.
Author's Note
The conclusion to the fragile alliance between Gilroy and his strange friend
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Chapter 3 - The Eternal Fire: Lost to the Ages
"After the Conjunction of Spheres, equine would eventually encounter the Elven Deer of the Everfree - whose ancestors came to this plane of existence by white ships that sailed through a fog from an invisible ocean. The Deer were overcame and in distraught with how their art and culture may be abused, they destroyed the once beautiful civilization they lived in. Pony colonialism nearly wiped them all out, forcing the few that remained to live in non-equine districts within the cities or on reservations. The Deer had two options, to either assimilate or die. In the past few decades, some of the elven leaders decided it would be better to create the Third Option. These guerilla fighters, often hungry and delirious from living off of berries and nuts - are known as "Squirrels" or as said in Elder Speech, Scoi'tael. They sharpen their antlers and fasten them into bowed weapons, for firing projects such as bolts and arrows. Freedom fighters to some, demons to others." ~Raven Thorn, Non-Equine Conflicts: The Memoirs of a Mercenary
"I will continue on ahead, wait here." The Hexer stated, their chainmail shifted and clang as they reached for their silver sword. Once unsheathed, it proved shinier than their brand new gauntlets. White as a sheet, the dove-like Gryphon progressed forward into the dark ruins - guided only by the somber candle light from the lanterns on the wall. Behind was a small commando of Scoi'tael. The stags were tall, slim and slender - perhaps a bit malnourished. However, despite being supposedly fearless warriors of the cause, they were terrified of what they had encountered in these ruins. Dwarven ponies accompanied them at the side, a small unit of berserkers from Mahakam mountain ranges. They were short, sturdy stallions that had long beards and a furry, long coat that resembled their facial hair. Their manes however, cut short and kept tidy beneath golden helmets decorated vividly with their calligraphy. "Give me some distance, I said." Gilroy was stern, their yellow eyes peered back at his unusual contractors and ensured they did not breathe down his neck as he approached the chamber at the end of the passage way.
It was so humid down there, it was dripping wet from the sewers above from the city of Wyzim. It was a vast city of the Te'Mareian kingdom under King Foltest - who oversaw the trading which took place in the Hansa. Gilroy had often found work here, which was peculiar - as cities were not too welcoming to Hexers and vice versa. The cities were strange in the modern world, the weak would become strong and the strong, now coddled by a simpler life, became weak. It was as the priests always said, the meek would inherit the realms by the time of the White Frost. The priests were loud in the Te'Mareian capitol, even so deep underground - in these Elven ruins, Gilroy could hear them preach about the Eternal Fire which would save all of equine kind from extinction. The weak shepard the weak as the strong kill themselves in the coming age of conflict. But there was one sermon that Gilroy heard often, often in the real state districts as many houses built before a certain era can be sold without a seal of approval confirming it was not haunted. The Hexer found somewhat regular work as an exorcist, or rather - a skeptic to debunk supposed haunting. It was believed that the Elves cursed the land before they destroyed their city and fled. Wyzim has the most haunting per capita in the entire kingdom as a result - whenever a new house is on the market, it has to be cleared by a priest of the Eternal Fire. If one is not available, they hire a Hexer.
Yet, this was no typical haunting. It was not the superstitious wind that shifted the settling house's floorboards or a gust of room temperature exiting a confined space which resembled the sudden exhale of a specter's death rattle against a widow's neck. Gilroy moved near the chamber in centimeters, but they wished to sprint meters at a time to get into the suspiciously well lit room upahead. Water dripped from above, water dripped from the walls and water pooled on the ground. These ruins were one tremor away from being flooded and the Hexer knew it. The observation would inhibit the casting of the Sign of Aard, lest they all get crushed or drowned in sewer water. "Ughhh..." One of the stags far behind moaned, even their hardened senses and less than civilized living could find justification for the smell. "I swear, it smells worse than the sewers above down here!" The deer eyed upward, he cursed the equine that lived peacefully above him in what must have been the town quarter. "Bloede Dh'oine!"
"That is not sewage." Gilroy replied quickly, with that - they stopped and assumed a defensive stance. Their sword hand gripped the handle tightly as their other prepared to form any signs if necessary. "That is death." The visage of the deceased itself suddenly spurt out and the Eternal Fire's sermon on Wraiths returned to the Hexer's head. They were not as claimed, a projection of fear and melancholy. They were indeed, somewhat tangible and more than capable of causing bodily harm. The priests taught then when a soul dies suddenly, they are forced to finish the tasks they left uncompleted - despite being trapped in the walls of their very abode which received their death. They have no fear of equine or monster, they could haunt the darkest of crypts or the brightest of households. They are not the poltergeist that knocked at your door or stirred about in your cupboard. They were the malicious dead, manifested and hungry for nourishment in the form of recruiting the living into their ranks.
The wraith had no consistent form at first, the outline of an equine or perhaps a deer could be seen - but all that truly was visible was a creature of smoke from a non-existent fire. A hood concealed an infinite blackness that was their face - their torso wrapped tightly with a noose and rope which bound an unmarked gravestone to its back. Even as it floated, it appeared to be in immense pain and suffering, forever it would have to carry the malice it had for the living on its shoulder - a baggage which outweighed their own marker strapped to them. Whatever it may have been in the past life, it was something new now. Gilroy could not see where its death robes began or ended - in one hand it carried a lantern that illuminated a bright blue. It was filled with ectoplasm. A haunting mist followed the incorporeal Wraith and concealed the ancient sword it held in the other grasp. "By the beards of the dead of the Mahakam Pogrom!" A Dwarf called out, astonished by the appearance of the phantom.
Gilroy swung their sword, but it was too slow - they found that they had hit nothing but air. It was impossible to bleed a being that did not have veins. Yet, the Hexer continued to swing their silver and instead, continued to dash and cut the innocent air. Every time the Wraith disappeared before a strike, there was a sound that resembled a sheet being quickly pulled over one's head. The fwooshing and slashing would echo through the passageway back at the Scoi'tael, who could only stand by patiently and watch as the specter fought it out with the monster slayer. One by one, the candles of the lanterns that illuminated the path went out. There was complete blackness, besides the wet surface of the Hexer's eyes and the slight glisten of their sword and chain mail. Gilroy reached for a potion on their bandoleer and quickly digested the contents. It was the Cat potion, which granted the Hexer complete vision in the dark. It coursed through their veins and pumped through out their body with each beat of their internal drum - their eternal struggle for life on the Path. This was likely the most used potion by Hexers. In its superior form, it would grant the imbiber the ability to see even inanimate beings through walls.
The mutant could see every drop of water that fell from above and of course, the phantom in front of him. The Wraith must have realized that the monster slayer could not see them - for it brought up its lantern of ectoplasm and let it shine brightly in the eyes of the Hexer, in hopes that it would blind him. Instead, Gilroy's pupils naturally narrowed to prevent such from happening. The Hexer's sword twisted and turned through the ethereal form of the beast, it was like jabbing a blade into water - but it had some effect. The Wraith gasped, feeling the intrusion of silver meteorite sword in its body. It pulled away from the tangible realm for a moment to recompose itself. It reappeared in a flash behind the Hexer and cast its own blade down the back of the Gryphon. Gilroy gulped and stumbled, their back burned yet there was no damage to their armour in the slightest. They turned and swung with a one hundred and eight degree swipe - the Wraith felt something in that moment that would remind it of their past life. Mortality. Pain. Death?
"Ye, they be how ya do it! Smash 'im good, lad!" Another dwarf proclaimed, they already discussed among themselves what brand of mead to partake in to celebrate the heroic actions of the Gryphon. They seemed partial to the Hexer, as they were a non-equine, yet still refused to assimilate to the equine culture. Dwarves, despite predating the existence of their taller cousins in this sphere of existence, faced great prejudice despite their contributions to the equine society. The best smiths, the best locksmiths, the greatest of forges and a homeland rich in minerals and metals - they were a valued race, but a slave race at that. Alongside the Elven Deer, they were an Elder Race. Alas, you could only plunder an honest working dwarf pony so long before they braided their beard and aligned themselves with their true brothers, the Deer - with whom they once peacefully coexisted with. Indeed, it was the modern equine that colonized the world and brought such conflicts such as race and war into it. The Gryphons ruled the skies and only quarreled with themselves - however, many collaborated fully with the colonist efforts and assisted the Hussar units of the Pegasus armies of Roanania. These freedom fighters were on good terms with the Hexer, as they saw them as a Hexer first - rather than their equine-sympathetic race. Outcasts attracted outcasts. However, Hexers had little to do and even less business in the political affairs between the racial wars of the Northern Realms.
Gilroy did not know what the dwarves were cheering for. It was a fight in the dark, it must have left a lot to their imagination. The sounds of a sword cutting tightly stretched cloth as the silver blade passed through the ethereal body of a ghost and the occasional burst of blue light from the spirit's ectoplasm probably just fueled their imagination of what was happening. Few got to see the work of Hexer swordplay and live to tell about it, at least these Scoi'tael could say they at least heard it. "Come on, show me your war face..." The mutant taunted the tormented soul, the Wraith swam through the air at him and screeched - its spectral sword diced at him with consecutive blows. The Hexer was struck by only a few, but it did not matter - for they had now shredded the temporarily corporeal apparition with a few swipes. The specter yelped as it soon began to fall to pieces - ectoplasm oozed from its smokey limbs before it disappeared entirely besides a single gravemarker, cracked into small pieces on the ground. The noose rope that once was wrapped tightly around the death robes turned into ash, which laid like a layer of black soot across the gravestone. "Let's see what your name was..." Gilroy wiped the stone free to find that it was no longer nameless. Indeed, in death - the Wraith found some peace and offered a conclusion to its curse, a name to be remembered by. "Aelivan Nosaen - interesting, must have been Elven. May you rest in peace, for I will remember you."
A rattle of death exited an invisible mouth, the candles in the lanterns burst bright again and the passage way to the chamber was lit fully. A wave of warm wind past the Scoi'tael commando which remained station near the entrance of the ruins. Aelivan Nosaen was now remembered and could rest in peace fully, for the first time in what may be centuries. Gilroy could only hope that her suffering did not last long, as a few centuries were nothing to an Elf as it was. He did not know how miserable such a pause in their passage to the other side must have been as a wraith, however. To be overtaken by such misery and contempt. For once, the mutant was glad to be just that - a mutant of muted emotions. "The way is clear. Find your artifacts and get out of here before any other spirits wish to attach themselves to you and follow you home." Gilroy sheathed their sword and crossed their arms. Due to the light and the remaining effect of the cat potion, their eyes appeared especially narrow and serpent like. This mutated feature brought a smirk from the leader of the Scoi'tael commando unit.
"There are many spirits in the forests of which we inhabit, Vatt'ghern. Many of them do not haunt us, so if a spirit were to follow us - may it be an Elven one and follow us home." The Scoi'tael fighter had tall antlers which probably composed an entire third of his height. This was Mansi, their name in Elder Speech meant something like plucked flower or a plowed field. It was not their real name, but their Scoi'tael name. It was supposed to reflect the raped nature of his species. Funny, he stood tall and proudly as if his antlers did not fall off every other year. "I highly suggest that you forget everything that you have seen in here, White One. Forget these ruins, forget this place and most of all..." The unit passed the Hexer, who stubbornly moved after a brief nudge from one of the dwarves. "But most importantly and above all, va faill and dedicate yourself to forgetting our faces."
"Funny," the Hexer leaned in the doorway of the chamber. They examined the deer and dwarves who were quick to start looking upward at the ceiling, which had no sign of leakage. In fact, it was a great source of heat - as if there was a nice burning fireplace just above. They brought many weapons, but several also carried pickaxes and mining tools. Archaeologists who wished to rediscover artifacts of the lost Elven times rarely had a need for hammers that could dent an Elven sculpture with a single swing. Speaking of which, there was hardly any actual artifacts in what was described to Gilroy as a 'coven of riches, beyond the hopes and dreams of any dh'oine explorer.' "Where are these artifacts, Mansi? Where are the golden statues of Ithlinne? The sabers from the Valley of Flowers? The Minstrel's famed retelling of the fall of Wyzim in the trademark calligraphy of dwarves? You aren't here to gather artifacts, are you - elf?"
"Like I said, forget everything that you have seen here, White One. We do not need your infamous Hexer neutrality involved here today. We paid you to fight a wraith and you have. Congratulations." Mansi shoved past the bipedal Gryphon, they did not want to admit it, but they proved sturdier than they looked. The Hexer was lean and strong, while Mansi was malnourished. Gilroy wore modern armour and chainmail, made a week prior by a blacksmith and his son at the temple square in the city above - Mansi wore a tattered uniform scavenged from dead equine units that went to patrol the forest. It was a perfect metaphor for the struggle. A small shove from a sickly Elder Race against the well armoured, well fed and fit assimilated Gryphon. "There are no artifacts here as we thought, surely - they are lost to the ages. They have come to rot from the dampness or simply expired with age." It was tragic poetry - but still nothing of concern to the Hexer. They did not see right or wrong, equine or non-equine. Politics simply could not move past the bad taste on their tongue, as it would awkwardly prod the roof of their beak whenever the subject was brought up. Gilroy saw one thing and one thing only, the weight of coin in his pouch and how lighter or heavier it would be after a hunt.
A dwarf approached with a sack of coins in his mouth. He dropped it at the feet of the Gryphon, as they were too small to present it to the standing creature as it was. Gilroy quickly nabbed it from the wet ground and started to paw through it. They opened the little brown bag and examined how each of the Orens were basically rusted with blood, equine blood. "Aye, was it ghoul blood that ye poured over your magic sword before we entered the ruins?" The dwarf questioned, he seemed less eager about going through the chamber of a supposed artifact hot spot as they were with communicating with the Hexer. In fact, Gilroy would not be surprised if it was this dwarf's suggestion in the first place to get a monster slayer for this job. "Why you have two swords anyways? Oh, of course - I got ye! In case one breaks, is that not right?!" Such innocent questions they could have come out of the mouth of a young filly or colt. The Hexer could not help but notice the youth in the face of the dwarf, despite their long braided beard and heavy, golden battle ax strapped to their back. His teeth were yellow from mead, which stank up his coat as well.
"I placed specter oil on my blade before we entered the ruin, my previous investigation confirmed that you and your unit encountered a wraith before I arrived. I could tell from the ectoplasm that was on the corpses of the stags out back." Gilroy said simply, surely and quickly. They bit a single coin with their beak to ensure it was real and gave it a flip before it was placed back into the bag. Strange, this commando of Squirrels were not necessarily well equipped and they were otherwise bare to the bone from hunger. How could they afford to pay a Hexer? Even if the gold was stolen and looted from the dead, it had to have been an entire infantryman's month of pay gathered up from their shared treasures of post conflict plunder. Hypocritical. They were hungry yet chose to eat berries and probably leaves, but with this coin they could have bought enough food to last them at least two weeks of full stomachs. "And one sword is for monsters." Gilroy walked past the dwarf, who now only seemed more intrigue.
"What of the other?"
"That one is for everything else."
The entire city seemed to crowd itself around the bank the following morning. Every fanatical equine was there to protest loudly of the heist and how it was being handled. Priests from the Eternal Fire spat out their righteous bigotry and alongside them, members of the Order of the Flaming Rose. Nobility and poor marched through the streets and it was only a matter of time before a mob would come out to start killing the non-equines in the outskirts of Wyzim. The Hexer had heard of the commotion and chose to investigate. Wherever there was a crowd, there was bound to be something good for a Hexer. Crowds only formed for two reasons, pyre burnings and a caged beast from the wilds. Gilroy would be surprised to find that the residents of Wyzim were examining a very different kind of caged beast. A beast that they have in turned, bred and let form in the outskirts of their own capitol. It was time for the ponies of Wyzim to see the fruit of their supposed good nature in the obedience to their non-equine rhetoric.
"What is going on?" Gilroy asked a priest of the Eternal Fire. It was a tall pony, but aging and old - a sack of bones that could have been a wraith himself if he wore his hood more over his eyes. The robes were cast with decorations of a thorny rose surrounded by vivid flames. The fabric was suspiciously pricey and fancy for stallion of the faith - who took an oath of poverty. Their beard rivaled that of the dwarves Gilroy encountered last night, perhaps they had grown it out to portray their infinite wisdom and knowledge. The way their hooves shook and jaw chattered made it evident they had been a scribe in the monasteries before they ascended to priesthood. Pencil and quill forever in mouth, hooves constantly flipping millions up millions of pages a week. Yet, despite all those years of youth wasted in study - they looked more like a mad druid than a scholar from Oxenfort. "It is not noon and everypony already has their pitchforks out."
"Those cursed non-equine! A Scoi'tael commando has overtaken the bank and taken hostages! The Eternal Fire, may it shine brightly in our hearts, minds and souls - for it will bring us from the cold famine of faith within these terrorists..." The priest spat, their teeth rotten from the obedient diet of nothing, nothing and an extra cup of water if they managed to collect more tributes. In that moment, Gilroy noticed a certain parallel between the two extremists. Equine and non-equine. Both starving radicals on different spectrums of liberalism and conservatism. They met at the middle ground of conspiracy and madness, obedience to ideals that they both shared but for different names and cultures. "Elven Stags, cursed Deer arrow tossers and spear chucking, ax swinging dwarves are trying to empty the entire bank! To fund their terrorist operations no doubt, these insurgent separatists are going to be end of us all! You must help us, mutant - for you too, while an abomination - surely are loyal to the Eternal Fire?"
Gilroy chuckled at the new nickname. An abomination. Truly, that was what Hexers actually were. A mix of might, magic and nightmares for vampires to warn their kin at night of before sleep. "No. Hexers do not meddle in politics. I have no place or purpose in your little squabble with your Elven neighbors." The Gryphon looked over the crowd - as he easily stood above them all, being on their hind legs. Knights of the zealous Order of the Flaming Rose had set themselves up just outside of the bank entrance. The building itself was a complex work of Te'Mareian architects. Not an odd stone out of place. It must have been commissioned by King Foltest himself, this was the pride of the trading Hansa in the city. Gargoyles, hopefully fake ones, perched on the top of the roof and each door and window decorated with a framing worthy of Toussaint painting. Red brick with white linings, steps made of glistening obsidian. It was was wealth personified, but underneath laid greed like any other. The windows on the ground floor were barred, with tight, small beams of gold of course. The glass was broken and occasionally an antler would peer out over the crowd - a string tied to it and the other to form a bow. The tip of an arrow scanned the heads of the crowd and was likely very eager to lodge itself into the skull of any of the equine who gathered outside. "You brought this upon yourselves. Both sides. You never bothered assimilating with each other, both sides pushed and prodded and now that the war is over - some youths are trying to bring it back like it means anything."
"Precisely why you have to help us, monster slayer! These whoresons have found surely gotten in touch with their roots - they somehow found the ruins under the city, beneath the sewers even! They used that passage to break into one of the vaults, where they stayed through out the night..." The priest continued to repeat verbatim what the town yeller had told the people earlier that morning when the bank's doors opened to the public with the strong aroma of blood and Dwarven mead. Gilroy could not help but feel a tinge of guilt, knowing that they had indirectly gotten equine - a race that he was sworn to protect as per his guild and profession - killed and now held against their will. In fear of bodily harm or out right death, the workers inside were forced to confide with the conditions of their captors. This was not limited to beatings, harassment, verbal berating, comical hazing and out right rape or molestation. The evil inflicted upon the Elven Deers were not being reversed and reflected back onto ponykind. The elves know they have lost and that there is no way to turn back time. Instead, they intend to be a mirror, a reflection of the evil done upon them - so that they may forever haunt their tormentors. "They are lost to the ages, white one! Surely, I will do all that I can... the Church and Order, we have orens, we can pay-"
"That was all that you had to say." There was no time to negotiate the price. Gilroy felt obligated to participate now. The price of neutrality was never knowing when you had to take a side and then having to live with the consequences it bared. There was no such thing as black and white choices, good versus evil, chaos versus destiny and causality. At times, one must choose the lesser evil - for bloodshed is unavoidable. "Move, move, out of the way!" The mutant charged through the crowd and eventually hopped over the last few in the front. The Hexer had leaped over the barrier set up as a blockade to prevent a full on race riot from breaking out. In an instant, the unsung hero was now in the spotlight. The Order, in their heavy armor - some with wings and others mere earth ponies - there stood a single being that definitely was an unlikely sight. As Gilroy was the exception to the Scoi'tael to a degree, the knight that stood in front of him was the exception to the Order's own anti-non-equine rhetoric and preaching.
From the bright red armour, adorned of course with the sigil of a burning, thorny rose - stood a knight of yellow feathers. It was no pegasus, but a gryphon who stood bipedal as Gilroy did. A modest beak with darkened eyebrows - their top feathers were cut into that of a bow-cut, for the convenience of wearing a battle helm in combat. Every step was in stride and pride, this was a gryphon that took an oath to protect equine from monsters, evil magic and all things prohibited by the Eternal Fire fellowship. There was a degree of sophistication, but also pain and weariness in their eyes. This knight of the order, a leader and an outcast, had likely killed his own fellow gryphon in the defense of the Order and all equine. It was obvious, for there was no other way this chivalrous order would have followed him otherwise. "I am Sir Selig of Denesle. A Knight of the Order and the Eternal Fire. I am in gratitude, for it was rumored that there was a mutated monster slayer in our vicinity here in Wyzim. I am glad to see you are on the side of equine and the Eternal Fire, rather than those refugee scamps."
Gilroy did not flinch at the impressive presentation of Selig, to be quite frank - he looked like a dick. Yet, in that pompous glee that he delighted in, Selig was charming. Warm as a hearth fire and twice as cocky as a dwarven sword merchant. Yet, his composure was calm and collective. Gilroy noticed the parallels between the two of them and could not help but feel comfortable in his presence. So many followers of the Order and Eternal Fire often berated and scoffed at the existence of the Hexer. Yet, here it was different. It was more than just their shares species, but their similar places in the world. A strange middle ground, a compromise between equine and non-equine. Nature and the unnatural. Perhaps destiny is not pertained by merely race alone. Causality is driven by a wheel not of fate, but one's own individual choice. "I am not on your side or their's either. I am a monster hunter, not a witch burner." They swayed a hand for emphasis. "But I vaguely know that Scoi'tael commando that has held up the bank. If you go in there without a clue, you and your men are going to get slaughtered. They might be hungry, cold and desperate - but that makes them even more deadly. Like a cornered wyvern."
"Ah, yes, I understand your point - monster slayer." Selig seemed intrigued above all else. There was no rude words to reply to, they did not try to verbally insult the Hexer nor did they even seem to take notice in them beyond the fact that the two of them, as of now, were allies in this situation together. The knight brought their taloned hand up to stroke his own beak in thought. "Wyvern. Often mistaken for dragons. My father, I guess you could say you are able to relate to him, regarding your guild's history... hunted dragons. More often than not, the dragon turned out to be a wyvern. Flying reptiles with serpentine necks and venomous tridents at the end of their elongated tail." Gilroy had forgotten that the Order slayed monsters in their free time between slaughtering whores with their manhood at the whorehouses and burning deer at the stake. Selig managed to spout out knowledge of the wyvern with an encyclopedic lexicon that proved his literacy. The Hexer suddenly began to recognize the title this knight carried.
"Selig of Denesle, son of Ike of Densele, I presume?" Gilroy crossed their arms, but never let their weight lean on one foot or the other. They traced back their memory a bit and remembered an occurrence when they had been given the rare case of actually defending a monster. Not all creatures deserved to be killed. Dragons were among the first inhabitants of Equestria and predated all other species before the Conjunction of Spheres and the Elves that arrived on their white ships from another world. "Ike of Densele was crippled after he erhm... bravely charged a dragon and was promptly swatted down by the beast. Saw it with my own eyes, as I was there with an entourage of similar beast-slayers. He was crushed in his armour, yet he still flailed and managed to toss a bolt from a crossbow toward the dragon. He was a brave gryphon, whatever came of your father - if you do not mind me asking."
Selig chuckled and wiped away some dirt from his torso armour, which was plated in firm steel and painted over with a professional application of rose-red. The Hexer could not help but notice the rose on his sigil was painted in cherry red, however. "Do not worry, Hexer. My father talked rather fondly of you, despite being a bird of few words." That was a strange thing to hear, as Gilroy specifically remembered that Ike of Denesle was more than willing to chop off the Hexer's head when it came to who would slay the dragon. The Hexer could hardly remember the obscure circumstances that lead to them not only saving said beast, but in a way - befriending them. "My father is well passed, may he rest forever in the furnace of the peaceful and healing Eternal Fire. Despite his crippled condition, he requested himself strapped into a catapult and launched into a fray in which the Order was combating a Manticore gone mad." Selig, in his nightly vows, promised to never show sadness in his position as a knight. He turned away briefly for a moment, from the crowd and the Hexer. A tear was cast away with a flick from his talon onto the ground, where not even his own men could see. "It was a ferocious battle, my father flapped his crippled wings and still managed to gouge out an eye from the manticore. The beast replied predictably."
A loud crashing was heard, followed by some consecutive thuds. Another hostage was killed. A mare had been laid down onto the wooden floor of the bank and several arrows were cast from antler-bows into her body. They pierced her to the floor, no doubt about it. The Hexer's enhanced senses could hear the blood dripping from the ceiling of the floor below onto stacks of coin in the vaults. Ponies in the crowd shuttered at first, but then called for blood. The Knight and Hexer were unphased, in fact - it was Selig who raised a hand and ordered his men to sustain the now decaying position of the barricade. Residents of Wyzim were now just as blood thirsty as the elves. "I am guessing the manticore beat him or mauled him to death? A horrible way to go. Sorry that your father did not have a more honourable and frankly, deserving death. I still commend his bravery." It was weird for the Hexer to speak such sugary words, they had no respect for the deceased Ike but the living and courteous Selig was a different story.
"Actually, you are in fact wrong. My father is now cherished and patronized saint of the Eternal Fire. While himself merely a freelancer attached to the Order, his prestige has granted my name much privilege." Selig corrected, his gaze had rested on the once bare windowsill of the bank's right side. It was now decorated with the bloody mane of a scalped bank employee. This blood should could not go unanswered much longer. A fire that rivaled that of the Enteral's now raged in the hearts of the men of the Order and those in the crowd, ready to riot if necessary. Yet, in the chest of the Hexer, not a single additional pulse of blood exited their heart. "It was once said, that the time of heroes have been lost to the age of old. But I tell you this, Ike was devoured whole by the manticore!" Selig held a single talon in the air in proclamation of the Eternal Fire's greatness and sovereign, protecting rule over equine kind. It was a gesture often used by the members of the Church and Order. "My father, inspired by your Hexer technology, had created his own bombs. They had across their chest, much like you, a belt of items to help him in his final quest. He ignited all of the bombs and from inside, the manticore was burned alive!" A heroic deed indeed, as likely Ike was boiled in the brew of the monster's stomach too.
An arrow was launched through the window on the second floor and placed itself between the eyes of an Order hoofsoldier. Their staggered and their legs eventually gave away, from all fours to on the floor - they were dead before their flank hit the ground. Blood poured from the visor of his helmet and the dying nerves in his body made him twitch, their jaw chatter. "Witness him, brothers!" Selig called out, to a thunderous roar from not just the Order, but the crowd. But it as not angry, it was euphoric. As the corpse twitched and moaned its death rattle - the Order donned their helmets as their commander did. "Witness! Witness! For he is awaited by the Eternal Fire!" Selig screamed, his tender, polite and sophisticated voice replaced by a warrior's. Gilroy had forgotten that he was still a member of the fanatical religious zealots who burned crones to illuminate the Wyzim gardens at night. The worst part was - these were his temporary allies for the time being. Gilroy drew their steel sword and stood alongside Selig. They were going to siege the bank by force, if necessary.
Gilroy wanted to kick himself for getting involved in these politics. What was good for an equine was death for a Hexer.
Author's Note
Gilroy is forced to team up with an unlikely ally and must choose a lesser evil
